


Marked

by LittleSpider



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birth Control, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Car Sex, Coil fitting, Condoms, Cramps, Cum Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, Doggy Style, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fellatio, Fingerfucking, Francis POV, Gunshot, IUD, Kissing, Love Confessions, Major Character Injury, Morning Sex, Multiple Orgasms, NSFW, Oral Sex, Other, Pissy Leland, Porn With Plot, Scars, Scratching, Sex in a Car, Shower Sex, Smut, TW: Blood, TW: Sexual harrassment, TW: Vomit, TW: mention of anal rape, Teasing, Wesley without glasses, Woman on Top, Worried Wesley, assassination attempt, bullet wounds, doctors office, domestic wesley, emotional wesley, forearms, holy shit forearms, romantic bed sex, tw: mention of rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5897311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpider/pseuds/LittleSpider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your affair with James Wesley as so far proved remarkably uncomplicated but as the infamous Masked Devil of Hell's Kitchen continues to make your mutual employers life difficult, how long will it be before the house of cards falls down?</p><p> </p><p>-<br/>Follow on from 'Keeping Up Appearances'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Understood

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keeping Up Appearances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845768) by [LittleSpider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpider/pseuds/LittleSpider). 



 

You were stood sentinel over the door as Fisk held a meeting with one of the people in his inner-circle.

This one, Leland, was an incredibly boring, predictable, rude and to be quite honest-- a harmless, old fossil of a man who cooked Fisk's books to make the money look legitimate.

You knew his purpose, and to be polite to him, but that certainly didn't stop you from wanting to push him in front of a car and watch Hell's kitchen get a brand new blood type to add to its streets.

You looked to Francis who was sat polishing his gun with such fierce concentration that you were certain he had memorized it as muscle memory and that if he was blindfolded could disassemble and reassemble a gun inside of 60 seconds.

And to Peter and Paul. Two of the oldest of Fisk's retinue who had perfected their working relationship to the extent they could choreograph a take-down with a few nods and grunts, they were currently playing cards.

And John, who you'd seen pull someone's arm of of their socket for pulling a knife on him during a game of darts. He was reading the Bugle.

The door opened and the old man came out and looked around, shaking his head and clucking.

“Y'see!” he declared, throwing his arms out and gesturing to Fisk who followed behind, “You pay your men to sit around on their asses while that masked moron is out on the streets causing all manner of shit for us to deal with. They could be hunting him down!”

Fisk made a soft sigh and looked behind to Wesley who was now walking from behind Fisk.

“...I hardly think that the devil of Hells Kitchen is sipping a Macchiato in Starbucks waiting for us to find him, Leland.” he remarked. “Of course, if you're...offering your skills as a private detective...”

“A private detective might not be such a bad idea. I'll ask the Eastman's who they used!”

“Great idea(!) Let us know how it goes.” Wesley scorned.

He tutted again and sighed, eyeing you on the way out. The way his eyes moved over you made you feel like throwing-up but you kept your face neutral, your gaze placed at the mid-distance as though you hadn't acknowledged him.

Fisk turned to Wesley.

“He's right.”

Wesley stared after Leland and gave a uncertain head tilt.

“Maybe.”

“No. He is. We can't let this...masked man run rings around us. Not now. Nobu is growing restless. The Russians have expressed their concerns.”

“It's one or two isolated incidents...” Wesley placated him.

“I want more security around Gao. Put a detail on Leland too.”

Wesley sighed slightly, halting it before it got past his teeth.“...Understood.”

Fisk looked to you, his gaze dropped briefly before he picked it up again.

“Ah...” he began softly. “...I know that you want to discuss the task I sent you on last night. Come...” he offered, nodding to the room he had just vacated.

You stood up straight and walked past Wesley whose eyes followed you carefully.

He was wearing that aftershave again. The aftershave that you normally went home wearing a sample of.

As you stepped into the office, Wesley followed and closed the door behind you and moved to stand sentry at the door as Fisk stood the other side of a desk that was scattered with papers.

“I am pleased with the outcome of your work.” he began. “But I know there were complications.”

You folded your arms.

_Complications_?

No...complications were your car running out of gas on the way to a job, or your mark leaving their locale early.

A gun jamming as it was six inches from their head leading them to punch you in the solar plexus and make a run for it was a huge fuck up.

“I would have preferred if I could have taken my own supplies.” you say evenly, careful not to insinuate anger or displeasure, keeping your eyes on the man in front of you rather than straying to the man behind.

Fisk nodded.

“I'm sure.” He brushed a piece of paper over another, thoughtfully, examining it. “...However, given the nature of the business you take care of for me, it's better that you use something more...untraceable. Rest assured, I will take care of the issue.” he responded.

You nodded and moved to turn away.

“...May I ask?” he continued. “...How you managed to eliminate the threat given the issues with the hardware?”

How you killed the target?

“...I pressed down on his trachea until it broke. He choked on his own blood.”

Fisk nodded in approval.

_Dismissed_.

You turn away and look to Wesley who is staring straight past you and to Fisk.

_As usual._

You open the door and head back out and through the other men to get to your vehicle. Unlike the others, you are not bound to Fisk by duty. You come and go.

You work for him, and him alone, yes, but you are not a bodyguard there to guard him as he buys tea from his local supermarket or while he takes a piss in a restaurant. You're there just to take care of people he needs gone.

And since the NYPD had been cleaning up after you at Fisk's bequest, you had been breezing through your lists and leaving as much evidence as you fancied...

Life was remarkably uncomplicated...

Well...Almost.

James Wesley, Fisk's right hand man. Confidante, head henchman, friend, and personal assistant had been fucking you in secret for the last month and a half.

Since the night you had 'guarded' him on a 'date' to the opera which had dissolved into a evening of slow, passionate, grinding sex back at his apartment ( _not to mention foreplay in the theater and car_ ), you had been seeing each other intermittently, in secret, to continue your affair.

Although, you were two grown adults who could do whatever the hell you wanted, but you were also working for one of the most dangerous men in New York who you both doubted would give you his blessing if he caught you fucking in the back of his car.

So you kept it secret. Kept it under the radar and kept it out of work.

After all, it was just sex.

As soon as you had sat down in your car, your phone buzzed.

You checked it.

_'One new text message from J.'_

 

You felt a grin appear on your face and swiping the code into your phone unlocked it:

 

_'Meet me at 8pm. Usual place. Wear something loose.'_

 

It seemed you had a _date_.

Francis had been keeping your liaisons a secret ever since the night he saw the pair of you in the back of the car while he drove and had barely spoken more than 15 words to you since.

Still, you had a respect for him based on his loyalty to Wesley, and not to Fisk. A lot of men would have stepped over Wesley's body for the opportunity to stand at Fisk's side, but Francis did not.

His silence was much appreciated.

You put on your seatbelt, and drove home.

 

*

 

7:55pm. The docks.

It was cold and damp near the docks and the smell of rotting sludge that blew in your face every time the water lapped at wet, mossy stone made you feel sick. You wondered how many bodies the water held, and how many more would end up in there before Fisk took control, and then remembered you didn't actually care. That was someone else's worry.

You had long since learned that a sense of wrong and right in this city got you killed and being in the grey area that overlapped only got your hands dirty.

You'd rather have filthy hands than a bullet in the head.

“ _It's better to be at the right hand of the devil than in his path.”_ You had said when you agreed to work for Fisk when he found you, beating on some thugs who'd tried their luck with you, your fists full of blood and your teeth gritted ready to take on more.

He ordered Peter and Paul to clean you up, put you in a hotel room and see that you didn't leave before he had spoken to you again—and after being on the streets for six months. Going from shelter, to hostel, to dumpster after you had been evicted for not making the rent...again, you thought you'd been saved.

Saviors, sometimes wore black.

7:59pm. A car pulled up.

Fisk's town car and you stepped from the shadows as Francis killed the lights and stepped out, looking towards your motorcycle that you'd parked with the lights on.

A beacon for them to find amidst the crates and containers.

You stepped forwards, clicked the key and switched off the lights before nodding to Francis in acknowledgement.

He nodded back and then threw you the keys before flicking up the neck of his coat and taking a brisk walk towards the shipyard.

You tried to contain your fervor as you stepped towards the car. Your breath coming in gasps of white fog out of your mouth in the freezing temperatures of a New York night.

Sliding into the rear drivers side door, you could smell his aftershave already before you'd even looked at him.

You kept your gaze ahead, waiting for him to speak first.

You always let him take the lead, it was more exciting that way.

He was wearing a thick winter coat, black leather gloves and a scarf that was decoration more than anything as he stared forwards, waiting for Francis to get out of sight.

“Were you followed?” he asked removing his gloves.

You shook your head.

“Of course not.”

“Good.” he nodded before taking the key from your hand, locking the door with a click of the button and pulling you to him to kiss you.

You wrapped your arms around him, kissing him back, hard, smiling, your lips pressing hard against his—letting him know much you longed for him.

You'd been waiting for this all day...

He'd shaved just for you judging by the creamy softness of his cheeks, the fresh scent of aftershave that lingered on his neck and cheeks and the clean taste of toothpaste on his tongue.

His hand strayed under your jacket, and pulled you harder to him, his hand grazing a bruise from last night's incident with the target.

You broke the kiss, wincing as you did and holding your side.

He pulled back, releasing his hold and looked to you, his eyes slightly wider with concern.

“...Are you alright?” he asked quickly, your saliva visible on his bottom lip.

You almost laugh.

“Yeah...just where that fucker got me...”

Wesley unzipped your jacket, rolled up your sweater to see and sucked his teeth a little when he saw the vivid purple bruise that patterned up your skin.

“Looks painful.” he remarked, pressing his hand to it gently to soothe it. “...considered armor?”

You shook your head, smiling.

“Sure, slow me down even more.”

“No...” he responded, rolling down your sweater. “The stuff... _he_...uses...its lighter.”

You looked at him.

Why wouldn't he ever say his name...?

“...I don't think he'd waste it on me.” you reply, getting tired of talking shop and pull him down by the collar of his coat. “...Besides...I want some new bruises...Nice ones...”

He gave a low laugh and pushed you to the back seat of the car before leaning in and kissing you again.

You knew it was a quick fumble, nothing more. He couldn't afford to be 'unavailable' for too long. He probably told Fisk he was running an errand for business while he was here with you, and you had a night off and so wouldn't be called, unless someone seriously pissed him off suddenly.

He slipped his hand inside of the waistband of your pants and into your panties as he drew the air from your lungs greedily, sending you dizzy.

As his fingers found your slit, he most have noticed the absence of what you'd spent all afternoon carefully grooming—having shaved for him especially. He drew back and looked down to where his hand was before looking you in the eye.

“...Hmmm...” he remarked, stroking the smooth groove of your femininity, his fingertips gracing your folds teasingly.

“...Do you like?” you asked.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he scoots away from you, pulls off his scarf and pulls your pants down by their ankles, hooking his fingers inside your panties and pulling them down soon after before leaving you bare from the waist down in the back of the car.

You felt him breathing against your clit already, feeling the benefits of being shaved immediately as his tongue slides in between your folds and flicks at your hard clit. Agitating it with the tip of his tongue.

You moan quietly into the leather work, feeling his thumbs on the inside of your thighs as he holds them apart, working his tongue around your clit as though mapping it with the tip before graduating to long, flat licks.

Just fucking hearing him feast on your cunt is enough to make you push yourself into his face, forcing his tongue just that sweet few centimetres deeper.

You pulled up your sweater, exposing your breasts and gently pinched your nipple, feeling it peak under your fingers and flexing your hips, pulling your muscles from your pelvic floor up to tighten the feeling.

He must have felt the motion because he looked up at you, his blue eyes shining above his glasses with mischief and lust.

“...You want to cum?” he asked.

“Yes.” you whispered to him, grabbing your own breast and squeezing it, more to tease him than anything else.

He breathed a hot breath against your quivering vulva, watching you twitch before giving a low laugh. “...You want me to fuck it out of you...or get you to cum on my tongue?”

Both were erotic, but if he could take it, you wouldn't mind having him inside you tonight.

“Depends...” you teased, breathlessly. “Think you can manage to fuck it out of me?”

It was as good as a dare as he sat up, pulling a hanky out of his suit pocket and cleaning up his face quickly before unhooking his belt and unzipping his fly.

You lay there, your ass pressed against the leather-work of the car, your legs splayed open as you waited for his cock.

He suddenly hesitated, thinking for a moment and then zipped his fly, shaking his head.

“I can't...” he said breathlessly, redness in his cheeks now. “...I can't. I'm sorry...”

“What?” you asked, your eyes wide, sitting up, wondering what the hell you'd done wrong.

“I don't have a condom with me...I can't...I'm sorry.”

“Just pull out.” you murmured, leaning in and kissing him to rekindle his passion. He began to kiss you back, his hands roaming back down your body before pulling away again, more insistent this time.

“No...No...I can't risk it.” he replied, pulling away after pressing a hasty kiss to the corner of your lips. “...Please...I can't.”

“...Just wait...” you said, reaching for your jacket that you'd stripped off as Wesley pulled the crotch of his trousers down to accommodate the suddenly unwanted erection.

You grabbed your wallet and flicked through the card holders, hoping you still had a condom on there from your last relationship.

It was still there. If you'd been so damn keen on cleaning your wallet out every so often you'd have thrown it away months ago.

You smiled and plucked it out, holding it up for him to see.

He took it from you, checking the date in the light of the street-lights outside before moving in and kissing you again, gratitude no doubt as you reached down and unzipped him again

He paused and breathed against your lips as you pushed his fly apart and reached in, caressing his thick, hard cock through his boxers.

The roughness in his breathing, his eyelashes fluttering shut as you caressed his shaft made you understand just how badly turned on her was and knew not to delay him any further.

You felt you'd earned the right to choose your position and looked up at him, biting his bottom lip between your teeth and saying:

“...Fuck me from behind...I want you deep...”

He pulled back for you at once, pulling down his suit pants and boxers and taking care of the condom as you turned around, presenting your ass for him, slowly stroking your clit to regain momentum you'd lost.

You were on the clock. And couldn't afford to arouse suspicion.

You felt the rubbery hardness of him bump against your inner thigh, his hand wrapped around the curve of your hip as the other guided his cock to you and pushed in with ease, having made you plenty wet.

You moaned, reaching between your legs to feel his cock sliding into you with ease as he squeezed your hip.

“...Fuck...James...” you murmured as he filled you up, the burning feeling that was pure lust soothed for a moment. “...say it...”

He ran his hand around to your clit, pinching it softly between his fingers.

“...say what... _Ellen_?”

You groaned and arched your back, pushing against him. Rewarding him for doing as you asked and he ran his free hand up your middle, between your breasts and inhaling the scent from your hair began to push into you.

He had no time for romantic gestures tonight.

You held his hand, guiding it to rub harder on your clit, painfully so now as a reluctant, halted climax worked its way through you, deep and with the promise of landing so hard that it would make you scream for him again.

He gripped your hip with one hand, leaving bruises while the other rubbed and squeezed your clit, his cock brushing your G-Spot, not quite hitting it at this angle.

“...James...James...” you said eagerly. “...Wait...”

He stopped, his breath coming in hitches as you lay down on your front, your ass up in the air, your hands gripping the door handle, submitting yourself to him.

He repositioned himself quickly and began to fuck you harder, deeper. Ramming into you hard and pulling out as far as he dared before pushing back in.

He was hitting the spot arduously now as he stimulated your clit with more gusto.

Your breath hitched in your chest as you widened your thighs for him and in a moment felt it all come undone under his ministrations, soaking his cock in your cum.

It had been a pathetic attempt at holding onto your libido for a while longer, but the pay off had been amazing.

Your cum covered thighs were shaking as you echoed his name off of the cars interior. He was holding onto the back of your hair, gathering it in his fist as some kind of reigns now as he held onto his own orgasm in earnest only to have him spend it inside you on the next thrust.

Seems it had been difficult for him too...

He shouted suddenly and exhaling loudly, shaking into you, his cock buried almost painfully deep inside you as you fluttered and cramped around him.

You sighed in bliss, your face pressed against the leather as he withdrew from your aching walls.

He sat back heavily as you collapsed against the seats, bare from the waist down as he dealt with the condom.

It was seedy. Dirty. Clandestine...

And satisfied you entirely.

He sat there, after zipping himself up and reaching for your underwear and pants to give them to you, smoothing his hair back and cleaning his glasses on his hanky again as you dressed yourself. Your hands shaking.

As soon as he had made himself look presentable again, checking for staining on the front of his trousers, he peered through the mist on the inside of the windows to look for Francis.

You pulled the tie string on your pants and knotted them before looking to him.

“...Are you working tomorrow?” he asked, looking back at you.

You nodded.

“I have some new targets.” you replied. “Observational so far-”

He held up his hand.

“...I don't need to know the details. The less I know, the less I will need to keep from him.”

You nodded.

That was one of the rules. No shop talk outside of work and no outside talk inside of work.

He looked back at you as you zipped your jacket up.

“...You should get that side checked out. It looks like tissue damage.”

You sniffed in amusement.

“Worried about me?”

“...Worried about your job.” he responded, clicking the keys and unlocking the doors. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”

The doors opened.

“ _Understood_.” you remarked, mirroring his usual verbal tic and getting out. As you closed the door, you were certain you saw a ghost of a smirk on his face.

Francis was lingering near your bike.

“...all yours.” you replied.

He didn't look at you, but he acknowledged what you said as you mounted your bike, admittedly sore from just now.

You slid on your helmet and watched as the lights of the car came on, and Francis reversed smoothly out of there before driving away.

 

 


	2. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk has a new task for you, but you're not sure you can handle this type of work and Wesley finds out an interesting new fact about you that he's sure to use as leverage.

Your daily shower that morning involved washing his scent off you, as much as you didn't want to, and making a catalogue of the bruises you could see.

The purple bruising that was now patterning up your ribs was aching but the new light brown bruises you had on the inside of your thighs were the perfect shape of his thumbs as he'd held you tight to his face as he'd licked and sucked at your clit and lips.

He was fantastic at oral and unusually, he liked performing for you.

He usually headed straight there after teasing you through your panties for a bit and tended to spend a good 15-20 minutes working an orgasm out of you before pushing his hard cock inside you and fucking you senseless.

And it usually was senseless as you lay there on his bed, or on the couch, in the back of the car while he redressed himself and prepared to leave again.

He never really did stick around, but that was fine.

The after-sex clean up was usually unerotic and best done alone.

But the one thing you longed for from him, was shower sex.

Feeling his hot, wet body against your, his hips rocking against yours, his wet lips and tongue gliding over your neck as his hands squeezed your wet tits made your womanhood pulse with hunger just thinking about it—but as Fisk's plans for Hells Kitchen accelerated, the time he could spend off the clock lessened and you were restricted to quick, hard fucks in places you shouldn't.

Not that they weren't mindblowingly good, but you hungered for something more erotic.

Dressing for the day, you dried your hair, tied it up, and headed to your usual place where you'd meet Fisk to receive your tasks.

It had started as a twice or once a week event where you'd receive a name, an address, sometimes a method, and you'd see to it.

Now Fisk was silencing people all over the city you had an almost daily task list which ranged from surveillance, to full on elimination and although the pay increase was a blessing, it had significantly raised the danger with it.

You took the motorcycle to avoid being delayed too much and with your usual dress looked no different to any other courier zipping around the city.

Fisk was never in the same place for more than two visits. Wesley would text the location for her next meeting with him, she would memorize it, then delete it.

Today it was at a restaurant between Eight and Ninth Avenue and as usual, the place was almost deserted but for Fisk who was sat at a table for six that was set for two.

Wesley stood at his right and gave you a smug smile as you walked in.

Paul looked to you and gave you a nod as you walked in.

Fisk's mother must have been the sort of woman to teach her son well because Fisk was always impeccably well-mannered.

He rose as you came to greet him and nodded.

“Thank you...for coming.” he said and gestured you to sit.

You didn't necessarily like sitting when Wesley was standing, it made you feel subservient but you kept your attention on Fisk who had his fists on the table. They seemed bruised.

“A pleasure.” you replied.

Formalities, as a rule, bored you. But you knew that Fisk did not necessarily NEED you because he couldn't do your job, he hired you because it was easier.

Best to placate him.

He looked to you.

“Recently, your work for me has been particularly impressive...” he began. “...Your swiftness...clear success rate...your particular knack of making it elementary have all been very useful.”

You nodded formally, your eyes flicking to Wesley as he stood there, scrutinizing you.

“...But your marks have been mere...flies in my kitchen...”

“Oh?” you asked, wondering where this metaphor was going.

“...I have need of you to take on a particularly irksome character.” he began. “...This will be a...long term project...I feel.”

_The masked man._

You kept your face impassive as you waited for him to elaborate.

“I have, as you no doubt have, heard tell of a man in Hells Kitchen who has been acting in a very concerning manner.” he began, looking to his cuffs. “...he has been disrupting operations. Causing a wave of discord throughout the men...and women of this organization.”

You nodded.

“Embarrassingly little is known about this...man except that he wears a mask.”

“...A masked man.” you repeat.

Fisk stirred uncomfortably.

“He wears black. Head to foot. A half mask.” Wesley continued. “He's quick but we're confident that you could take him down without incident.”

Your eyes flick up to his briefly and you catch a noseful of his cologne.

You looked back to Fisk, trying not to be distracted.

“There's a catch, isn't there?”

Fisk made a somewhat amused noise.

“You are very astute...” he replied. “...But yes. This man is like smoke in the air. We have been unable to trace him. And...between us...” he said quietly, despite the fact that they were the only ones in the restaurant apart from his men. “...the Russians are keen to find him.”

The Ranskahov brothers?

They couldn't even find him?

You nodded slowly, wondering if you were capable of finding him.

“...Is there a starting point?”

“I am going to give you one.” Fisk replied. “...You are familiar with Mr. Owlsley...”

You repressed a shudder.

“I am.”

“I am growing concerned that he will be a target for the Masked Man. He has hit very close in attacking the Russians and as Owlsley possesses unique skills. If the masked man is making connections, I do not want him to be a loose cog that comes loose...Do you understand?”

You nodded.

Fisk was scared his accountant was going to end up crying his heart out to a big bad bogeyman in a mask. You got it. But didn't see where this was going.

“...You will be assigned to protecting Mr. Owlsley.”

You sat back, somewhat shocked.

You were an assassin, not a bodyguard.

“...Sir.” You began formally. “...I am not a protector.”

“I am aware.” he continued, the fingers on his hands growing restless. “...But I am confident in your skills.”

You had no desire to protect that wrinkled sour prune of a man.

“...I may fail.”

“And you may succeed.” Fisk replied.

You heard Wesley take an in-breath before exhaling it again.

He wanted to speak.

You looked up at him accusingly.

_You didn't need him to fight your battles._

He looked to you and then to Fisk.

“Perhaps if she used her own hardware, Sir? She may feel more...comfortable.”

Fisk nodded.

“I see no use for untraceable weapons now.”

“It wasn't my gun that was causing me concern, Sir.”

“...You will be appropriately compensated for your work. The incentive being the death of the masked man and the financial comfort his death will bring you.” Wesley responded, the ghost of a smile on his smug face.

_You could have punched him._

You looked back at Fisk.

“I will accept the task.”

Fisk nodded.

“I have no qualms you will yield results. Be sure to keep a note of your expenses, and I will give your number to Leland.” he said standing, your cue to leave. “Wesley...” he said briefly.

Wesley nodded and gestured towards the door for you.

Why was he asked to follow you?

Why was he following you now?

Perplexed as Wesley followed you onto the street on the way out, you turned to him as soon as the door shut, waiting for him to speak.

He handed you a cell phone.

“It's a direct line to _him_. If you have a sighting, wish to report anything unusual from Owlsley, you use it.” he replied.

You took it from him, your lower jaw set as you stared at the cell phone, wondering why Fisk himself hadn't told you.

“...Am I informant as well as bodyguard to that creep?” you spat acidly.

He smirked slightly, it seemed he hated Leland as much as you did.

“So it would seem...”

There was a pause.

“...I would like it if you were to go on birth control.” he replied in the same casual manner.

You looked at him sharply, his expression hadn't even changed.

“I'm sorry?” you repeated.

“You heard.” he replied.

You tilted your head calculatingly.

“...Is this appropriate?”

“No. But it is urgent.” he responded promptly. “Your thoughts?”

Your brain was muddled with the quick transition from work to private. Yes, you'd considered it.

“...well, that depends. Do you fuck other girls?”

He sneered.

“Jealous?”

“No. I don't want Herpes.”

He pinned you with a narrow eyed look and smirked.

“Incidentally, No. You?”

You shook your head.

“So?”

“Alright. I'll look into it.”

He checked his watch.

“...I will be in contact.”

And with that, he turned and headed back in to Fisk.

_Did that technically mean you were now exclusive?_

You shrugged and headed back to the motorcycle and awaited that old walnut's phone call.

*

Leland had called you within the hour and had stipulated some pathetic rules and expectations which included being his chauffeur, carrying his briefcase, and being within a two miles radius at all times including while he was asleep.

You'd managed to hold back your laughter and had set him straight.

You were NOT his chauffeur.

You certainly were not his porter.

And you were not his live-in help.

You were there to stop a bullet going into his head. And that was it.

He seemed unhappy with it but agreed and asked you to come to his place at 8am that morning to accompany him to a breakfast engagement.

You agreed and hung up on him.

You were there to protect Fisk's assets, not make nice with him.

As you prepared to head to bed after watching the end of the documentary that you'd put on to numb your brain, there was a knock on the door.

You gave the clock a lazy glance.

11:03 pm.

Way too late for girl scouts...

Getting up quietly, you stepped lightly, avoiding the creaky floorboards and pulling the gun from the bag you had hanging from the coat hooks next to the door, looked through the spy-hole.

It was Wesley.

You breathed in relief and put the safety back on as you opened the door.

He turned back to the door as you stood there in rather unflattering yoga pants and a vest top.

“...bad time?” he asked.

“ _Bed_ time.” you corrected.

“...If you insist.” he smirked.

You sighed and stood back to let him in. Having him hanging around would only provoke suspicion.

He walked in, taking a look around.

Nope, you weren't planning on guests. Nope, you never had guests much, and yes, the place was untidy.

You put the gun back in its hiding place.

“...Nice place.” he offered, looking around.

“You didn't text.” you remarked.

“I didn't have chance.” he replied, looking back at you after admiring the print of Van Gogh's sunflowers above the fireplace.

“Can I help you?” you responded, wondering what he wanted. _As if you had to..._

“No.” he replied. “I came by to see you.”

“You came by to get off.”

Wesley's forehead furrowed, genuinely nonplussed.

“If I simply wanted that I could have texted you.”

_That was true._

You folded your arms.

“Then what?”

“...How do you feel about being that man's guard?”

_Work talk?_

_Here?_

_Now?_

You made no effort to hide your confusion.

“I'm not happy. But it pays.”

He nodded, humming before crossing to the window.

Clearly, this wasn't a finished topic.

“I don't think you're happy either.” you reply, walking towards him.

“Of course I'm not.” he replied, turning to you briefly but not bothering to elaborate.

You run your hand down his suited back.

“...You don't need to protect me, James.”

He looked to you.

“I don't try. I think you capable enough to handle yourself. Which is why I'm not worried. That...and Nobody will bother taking pot shots at that old fool.”

“So why are you here?” You ask, stroking his shoulder, resting your head against his arm.

He turns to you, his hand coming to stroke your cheek.

“...I wanted to check on your bruise...”

Wow. Smooth.

You smile and lift your tank top, presenting the bruise for him to see, not breaking eye contact as you deliver a shit-eating smile.

He runs his hand up your rib cage, its coolness soothing on the tender skin.

“...Interesting...” he continues, his voice dropping. “...But...I would rather see the other bruises...”

Without further words, he has scooped you up in his arms, displaying a strength he didn't look capable of as he carries you towards the kitchen.

“...James?”

“Yes?” he asks.

“...Bedroom is that way...”

“...Thank you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, inhaling the still present scent of his aftershave, nuzzling his neck and pressing kisses to it as he lays you on the bed, and kneels over you, pulling off his jacket and throwing it on the chair behind him.

He leans down and kisses your neck softly, slowly, his tongue pressing along the line of your throat, moving to your collarbone and flicking lightly over it as he tugged at your tank top.

You rocked forwards as he pulled away, hooking it over your head before burying his face in your breasts, cupping them together and kissing the soft skin of them, letting his lips drag over the nipples before suckling your left breast.

You ran your hand through his hair, caressing his scalp, arching your back and pressing your breasts into his mouth as he groaned in enjoyment and ran his hands under you, holding your back and licking around your nipple.

You feel the top of his glasses scraping against your breast and reach down to gently hook them from his face when he stops and follows your hand to the table, his glasses being set on the side.

He looks odd without them, his eyes small, and creased. Unfocused and slightly bewildered.

You wonder if any woman has done that before.

You reward him with a gentle caress of his cheek and a smile you're not sure he can see.

He buries his face back into your breast, caressing and lapping at them until he feels you relax onto the bed, all of the tension of the day lost in fog of gentle foreplay.

You open your eyes again, after feeling him pull away to see him discarding his tie, and shirt, again, your eyes drawn to the scar just below his navel that has become something of a physical marker for you now to find.

_Probably a bad thing._

You reared back up, and undoing his belt for him as you usually did. You unzipped him slowly, watching him sigh in relief as the bulge in his boxers spread out from between the shining black teeth of the zip.

He stepped out of his trousers, socks and shoes as you slid down your panties and pants ready for him.

He paused to fish something out of his jacket and admittedly, without his glasses, it was taking him some time as he screwed his eyes up trying to study his wallet.

You knew you shouldn't be finding this amusing, or even as sweet as it seemed, but you did and as you lay there, your body goose-bumped and ready for him.

Finally he found the condom and you sat up.

“...I think you'd better let me.”

He handed you the condom, a bemused expression on his face as you plucked the rubber from the foil and reached for him, pumping him a few times before pinching the tip and sliding it down onto him, all the way to the base.

He checked it was secure before crawling back between your thighs. His hand bumped up against the inside of your leg, feeling for your slit before stroking your pussy, feeling the slickness that had come from having him between your breasts and looked at you, your face inches from his.

He looked at you, his blue eyes open wide and locked onto yours, his breathing hot against your lips until you felt him buck his hips, and enter you suddenly.

You moaned at being filled up so suddenly as you adjusted to his length within you.

His face dissolved into a smile as he ran his hand through your hair.

“...You're beautiful.” he murmured as you tensed around him.

_Beautiful?_

He'd never said that before.

You didn't have much time to question it before he was pushing in and out of you, his one hand in your hair, the other snaking between you and troubling your clit in those tight messy circles he had learned got you off.

You arched your back, opening up for him more, letting his wide cock spread your pussy lips apart every time he penetrated you again, the tip of him brushing your G-Spot.

His hand moved from your hair, tucking under your back, holding you close to his pelvis so you could feel every muscle of his groin working to fulfill you.

He leaned in and kissed you, your lips soft and supple as he sucked them tenderly, biting the inside of your lip and licking it, resting his forehead against yours as he rocked into you.

“...Are you going to cum for me, _Ellen_?” he teased. “...Cum on my cock?”

You nodded, biting back a fresh utterance of pleasure as he twisted his hips, a new movement to send you spiralling into a fresh state of arousal.

“...Fuck...James...Oh God...James...” you breathed, holding your head as he watched your expressions up close.

“...You're _fucking_ beautiful...” he echoed, gritting his teeth as he fucked you a little harder now.

“...James...James...Oh God...James!” you moaned, a little theatrically as you felt his tension in his arms and legs grow as he thrust a little more forcefully.

“...I can feel you...” he murmured looking down at his cock pushing into you, pulling back the hood of your clit to expose it a little more. “...I can feel you getting there...Oh God...I can feel you getting ready to cum...”

You hadn't been sure he would have felt the fluttering in the walls inside you that preceded orgasm but knowing he could just turned you on that bit more.

He sped up his fingers on your clit as he stared down at you, watching you grow ever more aroused as he screwed you, feeling you.

“... _Ellen_...” he breathed in his low tone. “... _Ellen_...”

You opened your eyes for him, looking into his eyes as he parted your thighs a little more with his free hand and pushed deep into you, holding there as he frantically rubbed your clit.

You had remarkably little notice before you felt it overcome you.

Your legs gripped around him, your toes pointed, your clit raw and bulging under his fingers as you came hard, around him, your walls gripping and releasing him as the sheer gratification of having _something_ to cum around sent shock-waves through you.

“...Yes...YES!” He murmured, holding your hips as you rode out the orgasm on his thickness buried inside you.

You weren't yet played out, you could feel more pleasure building, you were going to cum again!

You grabbed his hand and pressed his fingers back to your clit, whimpering, whining imploringly and he gladly resumed, looking down at you, watching your body pulse and contort, your breasts shake, their nipples red and enraged as you worked towards another orgasm.

He could have simply fucked you instead, had the orgasm get him off too, but he didn't.

He wanted to watch you. Watch you come undone.

“...Cum for me, _Ellen_.” he commanded. “Cum for me, and I will fuck you senseless.”

You needed little more than that and you keened, your body twitching and convulsing as he worked a second climax from you, your cunt tightening around his hard cock painfully this time as you rocked back into the bed, your head hazy and giddy as you fluttered down from the high. Throbbing it out around him...

You slowly regained your senses as you became aware he was stroking your thighs in slow, sensual circles, his prick still buried in your walls where you were now convinced it was staying by how far in you'd managed to pull him, you could feel his cool, soft balls against your ass, his unfocused gaze on your sex-ravaged body.

You felt an drowning sense of self-awareness as he looked at you, aware you'd orgasmed twice in front of him and he'd managed to get a few thrusts in.

“...are you alright?” he asked, letting his fingers trace absent circles on your inner thigh.

“...I need you.” you murmured throatily, pulling him down by his shoulder. “I need you inside me, I need you...I _need_ you...”

He did not want much more prompting and began to fuck you again, his stomach touching yours with each thrust. Fast and unforgiving, no pace, and no pattern.

A sweat was beading on his forehead now, his skin becoming clammy and blotching on his torso as he held his breath, trying to expedite his climax, his ass taut and making it perfect for gripping hold of as he moved rapidly in and out of you, your cum making it slick and easy for him until his breath hitched, once...twice...

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH--!”

He shouted into the night, letting your neighbours know you had male company as he pumped into you, slowly pushing in and out a few more times until he stopped, collapsing onto his elbows, panting into your shoulder, his wet hair flicking onto your neck as he did.

You were glowing with soreness and happiness as you ached around his now softer cock.

You pressed a soft kiss to his head, along his hairline as he returned the kisses to your shoulder.

After a moment, he reached down, held on the condom, and rolled off of you, panting on his back as he stared at the ceiling.

Your pussy ached, your clit throbbed. Your breasts tingled and your lips felt violated.

But you were the fucking Queen of Hells Kitchen right now.

You looked over to him, seeing him fumble for his glasses again before sitting up and peeling the used condom from his shaft.

You looked away, trying to preserve the tenderness of the moment and reached over to flick on the lamp.

You heard the tissue hit the bin and felt him reach around your hip, caressing you and pressing into your back as he kissed your neck and shoulders softly.

“Hmmm-mmm....” he murmured.

“...I take it you enjoyed that?” you smiled, pressing back against him.

“...You did. Twice.” he remarked, nuzzling your neck now. "...did you know you were multi-orgasmic?"

  You scoffed softly, closing your eyes.

"No...Nobody else has managed that...just you..."

  There was a few moments where you could feel him process that praise as he kissed the back of your neck, his hand lazily stroking your stomach.

“...You're not heading off, right now, are you?” you asked, a guilty note of pleading lining the question.

 _Fuck_.

“...do you want me to?” he asked.

“No. I'd like you to stay...” you responded with as little emotion in your voice as you could manage.

“...I can leave early tomorrow. Head home and change... _he_ will be none the wiser.”

You smiled, looking over your shoulder.

“You can shower here.”

He smirked and pressed a kiss to your lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember guys, I love to hear what you love to read! So don't be shy, don't just click Kudos and dash, leave me a comment. I read every single one!


	3. No Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake to find Wesley still in your bed, but with time running out, can you satisfy his appetite for breakfast?

_Tick...Tick...Tick...Tick_

Your eyes opened slowly, your cheek pressed against the firm pillows of your bed as you identified a foreign noise from within your dreams.

You closed your eyes sleepily, preparing to go back to sleep as it wasn't even six yet but you remember, you don't actually own an analogue watch.

You turn over slowly, and feeling the bedsheets snag on something large, you remembered...

Rolling over, you Wesley was laying on his back, his eyes closed, his dark hair untidy and his left hand on his chest, the ticking coming from his wrist watch.

Wesley had stayed here last night...and had slept in your bed.

It was not that much of a big deal, sure, you'd spent the first night you had sex in his bed but since then you'd either met elsewhere to indulge in your sexual needs or you'd left his apartment after dressing and headed home.

You moved closer to him, your fatigued eyes roaming over his body as he lay there, completely restful. His lips parted slightly as slight heavy breaths huffed their way out.

You could have killed him.

You could have got the switch-blade from under your bed that you kept for safety, and killed him...

Laying in your bed...

Nobody knowing he'd been here...

And he knew this...he knew what you were capable of...

But he'd stayed, and slept beside you.

_Was this trust?_

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before snuggling down next to him, pressing against him.

He lazily wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer, pressing his nose to your head.

You soon fell asleep again, cuddled up to him.

 

*

 

You felt your breath catch and muttered an unconscious moan as you opened your eyes, sleepily woken by the feeling of something insanely good between your legs.

As you looked down, your eyes adjusting to the dark lamplight of the room, you saw a bump between your legs, covered by your bedsheets and the feeling of stubble pressing against your inner thigh.

It seemed he had woken before you, and before his alarm and fancied getting a head start on you.

You adjusted your position slightly and you heard him chuckle, sending waves of hot, humid air over your already sensitive genitals.

“...Good morning...” he murmured before pressing a tender kiss to your thigh.

You gave a gasp followed by smile as you flexed your thighs, bringing your knees up so that he could get a better hold of you, if he wanted.

“...If you wanted breakfast...” you began. “...I have cereal in the kitchen...”

You heard him give a low chuckle. He gently brushed your clit with his nose and kissed it softly. His lips pressing to the tender fleshy hood of it.

You murmured, feeling your stomach roll over with anticipation.

“I think I'll take what's here...” he replied.

You threw the bedsheets from off of you and him and looked down to see a mess of dark curls working between you thighs, nuzzling and suckling at the soft, tender skin of your them.

You lay back, a smile on your face as you remembered just how fucking good he was at giving oral...

_But something was eating at you—and it wasn't him._

“...James...You need to go home.” You sighed.

He murmured mutinously, slipping his tongue over the flesh junction of already frayed nerves and brushing his tongue against it.

“...James...” you almost whimpered, hoping he wouldn't do much more because you didn't have the strength ask him to stop. “Fisk is going to lose his shit if you are late.”

He stopped with a huff of hot air and resting his head against your thigh, nodded before pushing himself up.

“...You're right...Unfortunately.”

He sat up and wiped his mouth on his hand before looking to you.

You smiled at him in what you hope was commiseration but may have seemed mocking.

“You realize this is all your fault...” he continued, smirking slightly and crawling over to you and climbing over you so that you were face to face with him.

You grinned as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips.

You could taste yourself on his tongue and it fucking thrilled you.

You murmured against his tongue as his hand threaded itself into your hair.

You broke to check the clock besides your bed. It was only 6:15 am.

“...Let me make it up to you in the shower.” You suggested hopefully.

He grinned and let you get up as you took his hand and led him through to your bathroom that lay to the left in your bedroom.

It was small, but had a pretty decent sized tub with a shower fixture. You ran the shower, bending over as he moved behind you, pressing his erect cock against your thighs, pushing the head of it against your pussy lips.

“...don't tease...” you chided, not meaning it in the slightest as you stood slowly, your ass pressing back against his crotch, his erection pressing up against the cleft of your buttocks.

“You look particularly fuckable in the mornings...” he responded. “Your hair messy, your body bare...I could bend you over right here...”

You turned to him, pulling him into a passionate kiss, stepping backwards into the shower, bringing him with you.

The water in your apartment building got good and hot and the water pressure was always good enough for a refreshing shower in the morning.

As he stood under the hot water with you, his arms enveloped you his hands roaming to your waist and pulling you hard to him.

You learned quickly that Wesley was a passionate lover, and needed satisfying on an almost daily basis but that his sex drive did not interfere with his work.

He worked kisses, caresses, pinches, bites, scratches, and licking into his repertoire and knew what it took to get you over the edge after just a few encounters. He had physically mapped you with his tongue and hands and craved the taste of your womanhood as though it were his drug of choice.

_He was a perfect lover._

_Except for the fact he would never completely, and totally be yours._

Fisk could call his cell right this minute and he would towel off and head out without a second thought.

_It was just sex._

Just really, really good sex.

He ducked slightly, to kiss at your jawline, his stubble catching your sensitive skin in the warm water as it ran down your bodies, you could feel him against your thigh, his fingers sculpting your jaw as he kissed and nipped at your skin.

You reached down and took a hold of him in your hand, and began to stroke him firmly in your hand.

His lips grew into a smirk as you masturbated him lazily in the shower, his kisses moving to your neck, throat, up to under your ear as you ran your fingers over the head of him and gently squeezed it in your warm, wet hand.

He expired a groan into your neck pressing into your hand needily.

You had a sudden inspiration.

You slid down his body, and holding onto his hips, began to kiss his lower stomach, around the scar that dominated the untainted flesh.

He gave a soft, audible sigh, his fingers sliding into your wet hair as you nursed the skin around it with tender, breathy kisses, your nose brushing the trail of hair that led to his groin.

You wondered if anyone had kissed this scar, or even touched it apart from whomever stitched him up.

You wondered if Fisk knew about this scar.

Probably.

He'd have needed a week just to recover from something like that, and Fisk would have noticed if his assistant suddenly disappeared on him for a week.

You felt his erection bump against your throat as you kissed closer to his crotch and without further notice, you took his cock and wrapped your lips around the head of him.

It may have been the acoustics in the modest sized bathroom, or it could have just been that he was THAT excited, but you heard him give a loud gasp as you let him into your mouth.

You touched your tongue to the tip of him and though it felt like hot, soft, clean, wet flesh in your mouth, you had to admit, your experience with sucking men off hadn't been very varied.

Your first attempt had been with someone equally inexperienced who had blown his load the second your tongue had touched his dick and the subsequent attempts had been repetitive and boring with little enjoyment on your end.

After all, there was a reason it was called a Blow _JOB_.

But you wanted to give him a show. You'd say he'd earned it.

You wanted him to be thinking about your lips wrapped around his cock while he was in his meetings with Fisk or travelling to and from appointments.

You wanted him to think about his cock in your mouth every time he saw you lick your lips, or bite into your lunch.

You slowly sank your lips around him, taking him into your mouth, letting him 2 or 3 inches inside, feeling his girth part your lips open a little more, your hands settling on his ass and gripping the already tense muscles a little harder.

You felt him bob against your cheek and heard him sigh, his fingers massaging your scalp soothingly as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock rhythmically, letting your saliva coat his cock, slicking it for your movements as you slid him down into your mouth as far as he could go.

He hissed in satisfaction as you took as much of him in your mouth as you could comfortably get, your tongue sliding down the shaft as your lips dragged up and down.

You looked up, trying not to get the shower water in your eyes but eager to see how he was reacting.

His eyes were closed, his head relaxed back against the wall of the shower as he pressed his pelvis forwards, his hand gripping your hair gently, not pulling, but caressing.

You ran your tongue over the head of him, tasting the saltiness that was oozing out of him and swallowing making him gasp and buck his hips slightly.

_You'd never really enjoyed the taste of cum, I mean, who would, right?_

But you didn't seem to mind his...maybe it was because it was him, or maybe he just didn't taste as bitter as your ex's, maybe it was the fact it was diluted with hot water, or not the full load, but it made you almost want to taste all of it.

Holding his manhood at the base, you slid off of it, using your saliva to stroke him as you looked up at him, your voice husky with effort:

“I want to taste you in my mouth, _James_.”

He looked down at you, his eyes opening slightly as his other hand moved to your face, caressing it, his thumb brushing your lips.

You slipped your lips over his thumb and sucked on it, moaning a little as you did.

Yes, it was pure melodrama but if it was gonna turn him on, you weren't gonna stop.

_This was war._

You wanted him to remember this frequently, every time he jerked himself off in the shower, you wanted him to hear your voice, see your lips and your soaking hair and want to head over and fuck you again.

_This was erotic sabotage._

He groaned, closing his eyes again as your mouth slid back onto his cock forcefully now, picking up the pace and giving him precious little space to twitch or throb.

You could feel him pulsing in your mouth as his hands moved to your shoulders now, pressing down almost painfully as he tried not to face-fuck you.

“...G-God!” He groaned, running his hand down your back and trying to scrabble at your back with one hand, desperate to scratch or mark you. Punish you controlling him, reward you for making him lose control.

You dug your nails into his ass, the flesh breaking under your nails as he gasped and cried out. The suction in your mouth, the way your tongue moved around him, the pain in the flesh of his rear, the fact you were blowing him in your cramped little shower before work...

“I...I...Oh _fuck_!” he gasped and shot a load of hot cum into your mouth.

It hit the roof of your mouth before the second one coated your tongue and lips, finally, the third stroke dripped down your chin as he pulled out quickly, collapsing against the tiled wall and getting his breath back, the rest of it dripping from his cock.

He was looking at you as you knelt there, his seed dripping from your mouth. He was looking at you, panting, waiting to see what you did with that mouthful of hot semen.

Flicking your tongue out to gather the rest of it from your lip, you swallowed, looking up at him.

He pulled you to your feet and pulling you forcefully to his body passionately kissed you, pushing his tongue into your mouth and sending you light-headed by how deeply and turbulently he kissed you.

He must have been able to taste his cum in your mouth as he pushed you against the wall, his now soft cock pressing against your slit as he did.

You wanted him to be hard, so badly...You would have risked letting him fuck you without a condom.

He pulled away, sucking on your bottom lip as he did and ran his hand through your hair.

“...You swallowed...” he remarked with a smirk.

“...You tasted good...” you retorted, leaning in and licking his lips once.

He gave a low chuckle and ran his hand down your body to between your legs.

You let him tease your clit for a few moments before sighing and shaking your head.

“...We have work...”

“I know.” he replied, leaning in and cupping your pussy in his warm, strong hand, his middle finger flicking against your clit idly. “...You don't make it easy...”

He leaned in and kissed you again, idly thrusting his middle finger in and out of you shallowly before pulling away and rinsing off.

He left you alone in the shower shortly afterwards, probably to dress and dry his hair a little as you washed the sweat and cum from your body, washing your hair and trying not to let the sexual frustration he'd left you with make you later for your breakfast job.

As you got out and wrapped the towel around you, you saw him put his towel in your wash basket and put the watch he'd removed at some point in the night back on.

“...You have a meeting today. Noon.” he remarked, checking the face of the watch.

“I don't.” you replied. You knew you itinerary well.

“Owlsley does. So you do.” he replied.

“No work talk outside of work.” you responded, stepping forwards. “The less we know, the less chance we leak it.”

He thought about it, adjusting the watches position on his wrist and nodded once.

“...I'll call you.”

You nodded and watched him pick up his jacket before heading out of your bedroom towards the door.

“Oh, and _Ellen_...?”

“Yeah?” you called back.

“Birth Control. _Today_. Yes?”

You smirked slightly, almost enjoying the fact he was still thinking about it.

“...Sure...”

 

*

 

You arrived at the address that you'd been given at 8am prompt.

It was a town apartment, clearly not his home as it lacked all of the comforts that you'd associate a wealthy old man to have, like pictures of his family, pets, fancy rugs, a homely wife, or a busty, younger girlfriend.

He opened the door, dressed for the day and looking mighty pissed off already.

“...You're late.”

“I'm on time.” You replied. “Eight AM.”

“Rule number one, hot sauce. I say I want you here at Eight, you get here early. Do you understand?”

Your eyebrow raised.

“...First of all, Mr. Owlsley, you do not get to give me any pet names, nor will you demand of me anything other than my presence and my skills--WHEN--you need me.

Secondly, if you drop the idea that I am employed by you, you will find me much more agreeable to work with. And much more effective.

That said, the security system in your complex needs some upgrades. A 13 year old could hot wire that gate system and those cameras are fakes. Very expensive fakes.”

Owlsley looked shocked as he looked up at the shiny glass domed cameras that had been blindly watching over him for the last God knows how long.

“Now, do you have a meeting?”

He made a few grumbles and reached for his coat before heading out with you.

You'd made sure your gun was prepped in case this masked maniac got the craving to take out the old accountant but felt confident, as Wesley had said, that nobody was interested in him, yet.

“Who is the meeting with?” you asked, walking ahead, your eyes scanning around for problems.

There was an old Italian woman watering her flowers in the window box opposite, no threat.

“None of y'damn business.” he retorted grumpily.

You gave a soft laugh.

You had a beautiful retort lined up, but knew that if you used it, Fisk wouldn't be happy.

So instead you nodded.

“Okay...” you responded breezily. “Ever been shot in the leg?”

“...What?” you heard him ask cautiously.

You decided not to respond and let him stew in his paranoia for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always guys. Kudos is great, but comments are LOVE. Tell me what you saw, what you want to see more of!  
> What gets you getting into a cold shower of your own?


	4. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After fulfilling Wesley's request to gain a more reliable method of contraception, you run into the opportunity that may release you from Owlsley.  
> Unfortuately, things don't go according to plan...
> 
> Featuring: Francis' POV

“So tell me about him.”

“Hmm?”

“The guy. The guy that's got you calling up for an emergency appointment with me.”

“Oh. He's about 6'2, black hair, blue eyes. Smart dresser. Good taste in Opera. He's got a voice like honey being simmered over a low flame...”

“Now I know why you said this appointment had to be urgent.” Your doctor smirked up at you.

Owlsley had dismissed you for his meeting with Fisk which had given you a prime opportunity to call your doctor and try and get a lunchtime appointment.

Wesley hadn't texted you to ask why you weren't there with Owlsley so you assumed Fisk hadn't queried it and could take your time knowing that as long as they were in their meeting, you could see to your own personal matters.

You lay there, on your back, staring up at the duck-egg painted ceiling in an unflattering paper-gown as your Doctor fitted you with a coil.

“...So this works straight away?” you asked, peering down at her as she worked.

“Immediately.” she responded. “Though you're gonna be feeling crampy and may spot a little for a few days so I doubt sex is going to be on your mind.”

“...I don't know so much.” you reply. “He's pretty persuasive.”

Your doctor gave a light laugh.

“Well, that said, immediate, yes. But, you'll need to come back in for check ups. Make sure it's sitting properly. Hasn't gone walkabout. You notice anything unusual, any problems, I want to see you sooner.”

“You got it.”

She finished up and slid off her rubber gloves.

“You can get changed.”

You eased yourself off of the hard examination table and felt one of the cramps she had mentioned quake in your uterus, you held your stomach.

“Fuck.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“I'd recommend a warm bath, plenty of water, rest and an early night.”

“No chance. I'm working tonight.”

She looked at you, writing you a bill.

“...Does he know what kind of work you do?”

You hadn't explicitly told her your exact job, but the amount of stitches she'd given you over the last few years, the bruising she'd checked, the padding she'd taped to you, she had a vague idea you did something not quite so legal.

“...No.” you replied, covering for him. “He works in the financial sector.”

“Hmmm.” she replied and handed the bill over. “Well, I'd get some pain relief, and maybe one of those adhesive heat packs to put under your shirt and as soon as you can, rest. You'll feel better in a day or so.”

You nodded, taking the bill.

“Thanks.”

You made your way through the clinic and putting the cost of the coil on a card headed back to your car, checking your cell.

No new calls.

Good. They hadn't missed you.

You were beginning to wonder about your task.

_The Masked Man._

You'd done some initial research. Looked at the Bugle, checked the internet for stories. The guy had a Facebook fan page for fucks sake.

You had heard from Paul that one of the men who worked for the Russians had got his ass handed to him at the docks a few weeks ago, and that he had a penchant for being the hero.

Interesting...

You got into your car, feeling your stomach pull as you did and winced.

You reached into your glove box, pulled out a strip of painkillers and dry swallowed a couple before heading off to where you'd dropped Owlsley off for his meeting with Fisk.

Heroes had weaknesses, just like everyone else. Everyone worked on an incentive scheme. Some did it for the glory, some did it for the money, some did it because they had some fucked up trauma thing that made them want to be the savior they deserved when they were a child.

It was just a matter of finding what the masked man's was.

So far, you had the usual suspects. Women and Children and—of course Justice.

Nothing unique there then.

As you pulled up at the lights, your eyes ran over the people of Hells Kitchen, looking for any of your normal signifiers. You had committed the people who had wronged Wilson Fisk to memory long ago, an ever increasing list.

The wise ones either got the hell out of Hells Kitchen and never returned, the not too smart ones stayed behind and got a bullet in the back of the head.

Occasionally, you would still look for the ones who evaded you.

That's when you saw him.

The short, stooped man in the oversized leather jacket and balding head.

Malcolm Cook.

A bookie who had ripped off Fisk and had skipped town months ago without so much as a goodbye.

You'd had to rip out his girlfriends fingernails to get the truth and here he was...

Wandering around Hells Kitchen like business as usual.

_Christmas._

_This was Christmas._

Finally a chance to get rid of Owlsley by proving yourself more than capable of babysitting a bat-shit-insane old, scrotal-sac.

You waited for the lights to go green and then sped ahead, illegally turning into the side street he was crossing at and opening your door.

“Mal Cook...” you announced in a thoroughly relieved one.

“Fuck...No...Not Again!”

He set off at a bolt, dropping his bag.

You slammed the door, locked the car remotely and dashed after him.

Your stomach protested at the sudden exercise, echoing your Doctor's suggestion of rest as Cook ran through the streets of Hells Kitchen. His short legs weren't gaining much ground and the good, eternally pissed off people of Hells Kitchen simply side stepped him.

_Same shit. Different day._

You chased him down an alley, a perfect setting for him to get that bullet he'd been dodging for 6 months.

“You wanna die tired?” you shouted down the alley, panting slightly as the cramps took your breath now.

“You don't have to do this. I-I-I got his money!” Cook stammered, looking behind him for a way out.

“Sure, that's why you ran. You were running to pay him back.

He don't want your money, Mal. He wants your fucking blood on the streets for people to see.”

You reached into your jacket and pulled out your gun.

“By the way, shitty move, leaving your girlfriend to take the fall for you.”

You cocked the gun but as you did, your cell went off in your jacket pocket, vibrating against your side.

You momentarily acknowledged it giving him enough time to punch you in the gut.

The pain SEARED through you, sending ripples of agony through your lower half as you took a knee, winded.

He made to run, but you fired off a shot to the back of his knee, and a final one into his head.

Dropping the gun, you panted and gasped, nausea swimming through you as your phone continued to buzz in your pocket.

As soon as you'd started to breathe normally again, you staggered to the nearest garbage can and threw up.

 

 

*

 

_ Francis POV _

 

_Mr. Wesley had been acting strangely recently._

_Maybe it was because Francis knew. Knew about the affair between him and Fisk's guard._

_Jeez, It was a surprise that half of Hells Kitchen didn't know, the way they went at it._

_He'd already had to get the suspension on the back tyres checked once in the last few weeks and you'd suspected it was to do with them._

_But today, he was acting stranger still, to the extent Francis was worried Fisk was going to ask him why..._

_What the hell were he gonna say?_

_What could he say without outing the pair of them to the man who paid him?_

_He kept your eyes to the floor as Owlsley sighed and huffed dramatically and could feel the tension in the air as Wesley bit his tongue and filed through a box of papers. Deciding not to react to the old man's baiting._

“ _...Well, she's impossible.” Owlsley finally snapped, hanging up. “...She's not answering her phone. What's the point in having security that won't answer their phone? Probably getting her nails filed or her hair done or something.”_

_He stood up and swung to Fisk accusingly._

“ _I warned you, when you took her on.” he continued. “Women, they don't have the temperament for this kind of work!”_

“ _I have every faith in her.” Fisk replied evenly, looking at a document that Wesley had handed him. “She's never failed me before.”_

“ _I beg to differ.” he remarked, holding up his cell. “Probably can't get signal in the mall...”_

_Francis looked to Wesley, the way he inhaled quickly, a sign he was about to speak._

“ _I wouldn't say it was a failure.” he remarked. “More a sign that she has more important matters...”_

_He left the sentence open. It was perfectly plain what he meant._

“ _Oh?” Owlsley asked, standing and pinning him with an imperious stare. “And what is more important than guarding me against that masked nut?”_

_Wesley put the box down and met his eyes with a steeled look._

“ _Numerous things.” he said bluntly._

_Fisk handed Wesley a piece of paper._

“ _I'll call her.” he said, taking out his cell phone._

_It was a mark of just how important Owlsley was to Fisk's plan that he indulged his childish antics._

_Wesley looked at the page, but his eyes weren't moving behind the glass of the lenses._

_He was listening._

_Owlsley thrust his hands into his pants pockets and tutted impatiently._

“ _I have a golf appointment at 2.30PM with my lawyer. I still have to go home and change...” he complained. “So sooner rather than LATER...” he called to the phone as Fisk listened._

“ _Ah...” Fisk began. She must have answered for him. “Mr. Owlsley has been—Are you alright?”_

_Wesley's eyes froze on the page, and blinked once or twice. His Adam's apple brushing the starched cotton collar of his shirt as he swallowed._

“ _...Cook?” Fisk continued. “I...had assumed he'd left the city...”_

_Francis watched as Wesley put the paper down on the box and looked to his employer, his interest now warranted._

“ _...Then I am grateful....Ah, I see. That is unfortunate...Do you need to take the rest of the day to deal with it?”_

_Wesley turned his head back to the box decisively, his fingers on the edge of it as he stared into the files. Conflict shadowing his face as he listened._

_It sounded like she'd ran into trouble._

_Francis patted down his pocket to feel for his keys, knowing that as soon as he was able to, Mr. Wesley may ask him to drive him to her apartment, or the hospital..._

“ _...I...Thank you.” Fisk replied and hung up._

“ _...Peter...”_

_Peter raised his head, listening now._

“ _...Please take Mr. Owlsley to his home.”_

_Peter stood up and looked to Owlsley expectantly._

“ _What?!” Owlsley snapped. “She's called in sick?! She was fine this morning!”_

_Fisk put his phone away and turned to Wesley who was staring at the box still, his cheeks slightly red._

“ _...Malcolm Cook is no longer an issue.” he remarked. “...Ensure the police department clean up correctly.”_

“ _Understood.” Wesley replied thickly, looking to Owlsley, willing him to probe it further so that he didn't have to._

“ _Uh...Hello?! Who is going to protect me?!” he began loudly, practically stamping his feet._

“ _...I will assign Peter to you for the rest of the day. I am sure you will find no issue with that.” Fisk replied._

_Wesley looked to Fisk._

“ _After going to the station, will I need to make a stop at the hospital, Sir?”_

_Francis loved the way Wesley worded things. It demanded information without seeming like he was bothered. A perfect balance that yielded results._

“ _No. That won't be necessary.” Fisk replied, looking to the papers then to Owlsley. “...We will continue this another day. I trust you will have the rest of the paperwork soon...”_

_Wesley looked back at the box of files before looking up to Francis. His blue eyes looked dark, brooding. He raised his chin slightly to beckon him over and Francis walked over._

“ _Sir?”_

“ _...The car. Bring it around.” he said quietly to him before jutting his head to dismiss him._

_Francis took off out of the office at once_

_Francis had only seen Wesley worried this once, and that was when Mrs. Vistain was taken ill a few months ago and he had to chaperone Mr. Fisk around while keeping the business running smoothly._

_He hoped for his sake whatever was wrong wasn't that bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of smut in this chapter, impending fluff in the next.  
> More smut to follow.


	5. Thickened Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Wesley turns up at your apartment demanding answers, you find yourself in a unique position.

 

The loud knocking woke you.

Opening your eyes sleepily, you tasted the stale flavor of vomit in your mouth and the bleariness of a nap that went on for three hours too long.

And the knocking...That wasn't dehydration bouncing around your head...

That was real.

Groaning, you pushed yourself off of the couch, feeling the fabric scarring on your cheek and seeing the flickering image on the TV.

Some old white men in suits discussed the economy on mute.

The knocking had paused, and then began again, getting louder and more insistent.

_Shit..._

_Is that the police? Surely Fisk would have fixed it..._

_Fuck..._

_Okay....Relax...You don't have anything incriminating in the house...your handgun is legal..._

“...Alright!” you murmured grumpily, stretching and feeling the pain in your lower abdomen returning, hand-in-hand with the bruising that was now spreading up your stomach.

Shuffling to the door slowly, you checked the spyhole and saw not the NYPD but Wesley.

He was stood staring at your door, his eyes fixed on the door. He looked...Impatient?

No...

 _Worried_.

You sighed, trying to tame your sleep-tousled hair as you did. Trying to look halfway presentable for him.

As the door opened, he turned to you and gave you a once-over with his eyes, his lips parted as he scanned you once, twice...

He moved over the threshold and held onto you by your arms.

You whimpered as he took a hold of you, the aching in your torso speaking for you as his hands held you a little too roughly.

At once, he released you, his eyes moving over your face, his hands balled into loose fists at his side.

“Are you alright?” he asked quickly.

“...Had to call in sick.” you replied, coughing and clearing your throat. “...Saw one of his most wanted...took him out...but he swiped me first.”

“...How bad?” he asked quietly.

You pulled up your sweater to reveal a new purple bruise that blended into the older, browner one.

He pressed his cool fingertips to it tenderly and you closed your eyes in pain. The guy had punched hard for someone who was mostly bloat and bloodshot eyes.

Setting his jaw, he looked to you.

“...You didn't answer your phone...” he replied brusquely.

“I've been asleep.” you responded, leaning back against the breakfast bar.

“I've been calling.” he continued, seeming now more annoyed than worried.

“I'm sorry. I needed to sleep this off.”

He seemed to take pity on you and eased off of his interrogation.

“...The police have logged it as a homicide. No eyewitnesses, not much evidence.” he continued. “...although, I must admit, I'm surprised. You're making a habit of letting your targets leave marks on you.”

You knew it was true.

You'd been sloppy. But right now, you just wanted to curl up back on the couch and fall back to sleep.

“...My apologies...” you said formally and holding your side, you turned towards the television again and moved to the couch.

“Do you need to see a Doctor?” he asked.

“...saw one earlier. Part of the problem.”

Wesley moved over to you, watching you as you curled back up on the couch. He reached behind him and switched the television off.

“...What's going on here...?” he asked in a low voice, his head tilting, the street-lamp reflecting off of his glasses. “...Something you're clearly not interested in sharing...”

You looked up at him.

_Did he want the truth?_

_Why you'd called in sick to work?_

“...I had a coil fitted this afternoon. Per your request.”

Wesley's face was inscrutable in the low-light of the room. You weren't even sure if he knew what a coil was or how having one fitted meant you had to call in sick.

Sitting up again, you looked at him. He was staring at you now, completely unphased by your decisive silence.

If he wanted the details. He was going to get them.

“...Cramps. Bloating. Nausea...” You nodded. “...That mother-fucker hit me in the gut and I went down like lead weight. I was throwing up in a garbage can when I called Fisk. I managed to get home before I threw up again.”

He slowly crouched to your level, looking into your eyes.

The intensity and muteness in which he looked to you concerned you until he touched under your chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“...are you alright?” he repeated, softer this time.

“I'll be fine.” You replied quietly. “...I just need to rest.”

He looked conflicted, his eyebrows knitted in concern, his face etched with trouble.

“...Can I...do anything?”

You looked at him.

His hands were resting on your knees now as you sat there, a pillow held against your stomach. His eyes locked onto yours.

“...Do?” you prompted.

“--To help you feel better.” he replied sincerely.

_Didn't he have somewhere else to be?_

_Something else to do?_

_Someone else to attend to?_

“...Have you eaten?” he prompted. “I could cook for you...”

His thumb was now massaging your knee soothingly.

“You know how to cook?” you asked, raising a weak eyebrow.

He gave a cocky smile that answered you.

You didn't really think that you could manage any food after throwing up your bran flakes in the garbage this morning, or do much more than lay down for a while longer while the cramps wore off. But he seemed to show such genuine concern that you almost wanted to indulge yourself in it.

He reached up and stroked your hair behind your ear.

“You could go back to bed for an hour...” he continued in a soft tone, as though trying to convince you though you felt if you pushed this courtesy too much it would fall flat and he'd leave in a huff.

You nodded.

“...Okay.”

He smiled and leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“But not the couch. The thing offers no lumbar support.”

He offered his hand after standing up again and you took it, your stomach pulling as you hoisted yourself up.

As he led you to the bedroom you didn't quite make it to you wondered why he was doing this and wondered if he felt guilty that his employer; Your employer, had given you a task and that you'd been injured in the line of duty—or did he feel guilty that asking you to get contraception had made you unwell...

As he led you to the bed, he helped you into it and pulled the sheets over you.

“...do you need water or anything?”

You shook your head, wondering why your fuck-buddy was suddenly playing nursemaid, but weren't going to question it.

You felt like shit.

You didn't care if he pulled out a bedtime story and began reading to you. You were going to take him up on his very kind and strangely welcome offer.

He leaned down and brushed his lips over your head again before turning and heading to the kitchen.

 

*

 

“Ellen...?”

You opened your eyes and rolled onto your back to see him standing there, his jacket and tie absent, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows holding a plate of something that smelled like it was fresh out of a _Nonna's_ kitchen in Sicily.

You were pretty sure you didn't have anything in the cupboards that smelled that good.

“Dinner.” he offered and set the plate down on the beside table that was mysteriously clear.

Had he been tidying up?!

You stared down at the steaming dish and scented mushrooms, chicken, parsley...

It looked basic, but somehow wasn't.

You knew you didn't have half the stuff on that plate in your apartment.

“...You've been busy...” you mumbled, looking up at him as he left the bedroom and returned with his own plate and a fork. He looked remarkably informal.

“You actually had pasta...” he sounded surprised, sitting on the end of the bed.

“...Naturally.” you retorted, watching him perch himself at the end of the bed. “...its a great source of Carbs. Slow energy release. Great for chasing after small time crooks.”

He gave a soft snuff of amusement and settled the plate on his lap, studying it. “Impressive. Here was I believing you ordered from some quaint Chinese that was closed down periodically every few months for food safety violations.”

“Only ever on special occasions.” You snarked back playfully. “...Still. Impressed you managed to find mushrooms...”

“ I had Francis bring me the other ingredients I needed. Hence the delay.”

You had wrapped the tagliatelle around the fork and were preparing to eat it when he murmured.

“Hmm...How are you feeling?”

You felt better, your stomach was less strained and the nausea was more hunger based than anything else now.

“Better.” you mumbled a few forkfuls later.

He gave a nod and began to eat himself.

You watched him, sat there on the end of your bed. One of your mismatched plates balanced on his lap. His shirt creased from working in the kitchen, his hair a little ruffled, wrapping tagliatelle around his fork.

He looked so, _ordinary_.

No longer a powerhouse of cunning and secrecy.

More like an average man, like any man. Not the right hand of Hell's Kitchen's new boss.

You doubted Wesley ate anywhere that didn't have a firm surface or a tablecloth or pepper-mills, but here he was, sat quite content.

“...This must be like slumming it...huh?” you said, giving yourself a breather as the food filled the emptiness of your stomach.

He finished chewing and shrugged, making an uncertain head movement.

“Not really. I have had to eat at some awful Eastern European night club before now...”

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. Not his usual kind of place, no doubt.

“...Hmmm.” he nodded. “It amazes me how many vegetables can be pickled and served as entire meals...”

You chuckled lightly as he gave you a restricted smile.

“...Let me guess. The Russians?”

He nodded.

“When _he_ was first looking to make a deal with them. I was requested to go forth in his place and lay the plans. Initially, they rebuffed his advances. Finally, they saw sense when he made one of their reoccurring issues disappear. They invited him to a meal at their local club and I was asked to go in his stead...”

“Vodka?”

He nodded, shaking his head a little afterwards.

“So much Vodka.”

You grinned a little.

“...hangover?”

“...Did you know the Finnish people, they have a word for Hangover?”

You smiled at him in anticipation.

“... _Krapula_.”

You started to chuckle again.

His lips parted to a grin.

“...Aptly named, I think.”

You nodded and finished your meal before placing your empty plate on the bedside table.

“...so...” he began, finishing a forkful of his own food and placing his slightly less empty plate on top of yours. “...This 'coil'...”

_Really? Just after eating?_

“Yeah?” you asked tentatively.

“I've done a little research...”

“...really...?”

“Yes. And...I'm impressed.”

“Impressed?”

“Hmmm. It seems quite invasive. Especially given how uncomfortable it's made you.”

You shrugged.

“Yeah. Well, it was fast. And reliable.”

“Thank you.”

“But yeah. Invasive. Fortunately, my Doctor is pretty good.”

His features softened a little in sympathy and he looked to you.

He seemed to be hesitant on what to do. He was sat at the end of your bed, next to your feet, he had just cooked for you, and you'd shared some light conversation yet, he seemed unsure of what to do next. Conflicted between duty and demeanour...and _this..._

“...You know...” he began, correcting his glasses. “...I've seen you naked...

I've had my fingers inside of you, I've tasted every corner of your mouth, and brushed my lips over every inch of your body. I've watched you teeter and fall over into ecstasy...but I don't think I've ever seen you as bare as I have right now.”

Your lips parted open as you watched him, his eyes seeming to bore into you, as though searching for something he hadn't yet seen, tasted or touched and you understood how he felt because somehow the flesh exposed by his lack of tie, the bareness of his neck, seeing the scant chest hair, and the stubble shadowing his jaw was so much more erotic than having held his naked body in your arms when he'd fucked you.

He moved in a little closer, and you closed your eyes, as if preparing for a kiss but instead found his hands had rolled up your sweater and were studying the bruise.

“...It looks sore...” he muttered, pressing his fingertips to it. “...A little swollen...perhaps.”

“...Nothing rest won't fix.” you replied. “I heal pretty fast.”

“Will you be at work tomorrow?” he asked, flicking his eyes up to you as he pressed at some of the more angry bruising. You resisted the urge to wince.

“I should be. Don't want to keep Owlsley waiting any more.”

“Oh...” Wesley smirked. “He was livid.”

“Pfft.” You puffed. “...Who cares? The guy creeps me out. He's like the guy who insists on sitting next to you on the subway when the whole car is empty.”

“I've always thought of him as The Crypt Keeper.” he replied, smirking as his fingers moved across your abdomen towards an older scar.

Your eyes followed his fingers as he looked up.

“...knife?” he questioned.

“Glass.” you replied, looking to him. “...Bar fight. I'd been sleeping in the dumpster of a dive bar and some guy was trying to roll another guy...I didn't like it. So I came at him with a blade. The other person was faster than I was. It was a superficial wound, but healed badly. I was 16.”

He nodded and his fingers moved to some speckled marks on your hip.

“...And these?”

“Shrapnel. I was working private security in Brooklyn. My job was to check the vehicles for any devices. I guess they had some sort of remote trigger and...well...it was a really badly made home-made bomb. Flak Jacket took most of it. Had 11 foreign objects removed under local anaesthetic and a shit load of pain relief.”

“...A bomb..?”

He winced slightly before running his hand to the biggest scar. The one that ran along your side.

“...this?”

“...emergency surgery. Appendectomy. Thought it was food poisoning from a nasty Burrito. Turns out my appendix hadn't just burst, it had rotted away inside me. Peritonitis and two weeks in hospital doped up on morphine.”

“No war story?” he asked, smiling.

“Nope. Sadly, tests proved I was human after all.” You grinned, laying back as he mapped your scars and mistakes.

“...Hmmm...” he nodded, stroking his thumb across it before pulling away.

You reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“...I don't think so, Mr. Wesley...”

He arched an eyebrow, a guarded smile on his face.

“Oh?”

“I believe it's my turn.” you said sitting up, your nose brushing his.

“Hmmm.” he said, looking to you. “...really?”

You reared up slightly, and pulled him down onto the bed besides you before unbuttoning his shirt.

“...I thought you were resting...” he grunted with laughter as he fell back, allowing you to take the lead.

“Shh.”

He lay back and closed his eyes, smirking as you undid his buttons and found it...

As your thumb graced the solitary scar that blemished the untouched skin of his stomach his eyes snapped open.

“...Tell me about this...” you grinned.

“Ah.” The laughter died on his face and his lips slid back into a passive expression.

You sat back a little and looked at him, hopefully.

He looked up at you, his color had diminished a little and you realized that the cavalier attitude to had to your scars was not the case with him.

Your voice softened slightly.

“...James?”

He lay there, blinking up at the ceiling for a moment before his eyes moved to your face again.

“Shot.”

You'd suspected as much. The small scar...yet..

“...No exit wound. Am I right?” you asked. “...I didn't see an exit wound on your back...”

He almost looked proud when you said that.

“...It was a complicated wound. They found the bullet in my lung cavity.” he began matter of fact.

“...When?”

“...I think it was just before you began working for him...” he said, closing his eyes now as your thumb brushed the delicate reddish-white of the fading tissue.

You recalled that it was a few weeks before you had met Wesley after being employed by Fisk. And that when he came in, Fisk insisted that he sit for the duration of the meeting.

You had simply considered that he was dear to Fisk at the time, and that you should be wary of getting on the bad side of him but hadn't really put more thought to it.

“...how bad was it?”

“Quite.” he said offhandedly, now growing tired of your attention to it and sitting up, buttoning his shirt. “...Five minutes later and I would have died in the back of the car. But it's in the past. I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Don't do that.” you replied, looking to him.

He looked to you quizzically.

“...Don't ask me to open the door and then shut me out.”

“I don't follow.” he remarked, a self assured smile on his face.

“You ask me about my scars—I told you. Now I ask about yours, you're shutting me out.”

“It's not pertinent.” he replied.

You sat back on your calves.

“...We're exclusive now. I don't think of it as dating, or a relationship, but shit... I think I deserve more than this, James.”

He buttoned his collar up to the top and got off the bed, looking down at you.

“...I'm fond of you.” he admitted. Swallowing. “...But we can't let this complicate matters.”

Your inclined your head in disbelief.

“...I never asked for this.”

“No. Neither did I. We agreed to keep it separate.” He replied, rolling down his sleeves again.

You felt sick again and it was nothing to do with the pain in your gut.

“...You made a point of staying.” you snarled. “You made a point of making me dinner. Asking me about my life. My scars. I got too close for you and now you're pushing me away.”

He gave a soft scoff.

“...If you're going to get emotional--I'll see you tomorrow at work.”

“Get out.” you snapped.

He shrugged and walked through the lounge to get his jacket and tie.

You sat there, your cheeks and fists burning with rage as the door swung shut behind him.

_How dare he get so close..._

_How dare he demand that sort of closeness, the sort of closeness that went beyond sharing each others bodies, it went beyond just sex._

It was consideration. Kindness. Respect..

It was _intimacy_.

You picked up the plates and threw them at the nearest wall before turning over and covering yourself with the duvet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst Angst Angst!


	6. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an argument with Wesley, you spend the morning dealing with Owlsley, but can you make it through the day without texting Wesley, or killing the old accountant

The next morning you were woken up by your 6am alarm as usual and as you stretched and felt the bones in your arms and shoulders click and slot into place, you remembered.

Sitting up, you looked around and saw the now crusting plates and dried tagliatelle on the floor of your room in shards from where you had thrown them in a rage last night.

You remembered telling him to get out. The scar on his stomach and how he had rebuffed your reciprocation of intimacy he had initiated.

Out of frustration and anger, you had fallen asleep and now it was time to go back and face the music. And Owlsley.

You got up and finding the cramps from yesterday gone but the bruising now blooming out and tender to the touch, showered and took some meds. You got ready and headed out, grabbing a protein bar en route.

You had no idea what today would hold and hopefully, you wouldn't be required to deal with Wesley.

You were planning on leaving him hanging and expecting an apology by text or phone. You were hurt, of course, but there was no need to show you were bleeding. You were just confused by the mixed signals.

As you drove to Leland's place you wondered what his damage was.

Sure, you were a hardened assassin who had put more lead between peoples eyes than most, had lived half of your teen years on the streets or in the attics of brothels, drug dens and condemned buildings, but shit, at least you could let people 'in'. This guy, well, you barely knew about his life outside of work.

For someone you ended up in bed with at least four times a week, that was far too little.

Pulling up outside Owlsley's, you parked up, tapped in the code for the gate and let yourself in. You were pleased to see he'd taken on some of your advice and got his complex superintendent to fit better security.

Heading up to his apartment, he was already there are was giving the concierge a dressing down.

“--no checks, no ID checking, literally, could have been anyone!”

“Sir. I've explained before. I don't have the authority to frisk someone. I'm concierge, not a cop!”

“...Problem?” you began, walking over.

“Ah! And where were you yesterday?!”

You looked to Concierge who looked exasperated and too underpaid for this shit and you jerked your head to dismiss him.

“...Throwing up in a garbage can. Any more questions?”

He huffed and folded his arm, puffing out his chest.

“A likely story. Still, you smell better than that hairy gorilla he lumped me with yesterday. Guy drove like a maniac. What was his last job? Bus driver?”

You decided not to answer and instead gave him a blank stare.

“...C'mon in. You're too early. Not even dressed yet.” he said flapping his hands.

You reluctantly stepped into his apartment, thumbing the mace strapped to your belt and looked around.

The place smelled like unpacked furniture, cigar smoke and spirits. It made you feel sick.

“...Your itinerary for today...?”

He deemed it appropriate to ignore you and instead snuffled to grab his jacket from a couch that still had the plastic on it.

“...planning a move?”

“It keeps it fresher for longer.” he snapped and held out his jacket for you. “I'm renting this joint. They're not getting me on any technicalities.”

You raised an eyebrow at the jacket.

“...Help me into my jacket damn it! I'm 68 years old!”

“I am NOT your valet.”

He clucked and shook his head, complaining about Rheumatism and manners as he shrugged it on.

“9.30 AM I am having coffee with an adviser. I want you sat within two meters. 12.00, Lunch with my son, Lee—no funny ideas, he's married. 3PM I'm going to my chiropractor. After that, I have a dinner engagement at 7PM.”

You sighed inwardly, taking mental notes of each item on the list, grateful that Fisk wasn't among them.

“I want you to stick to me like GLUE.” He said, turning around and preparing to poke you in the chest.

“...lay a finger on me, Mr. Owlsley and I will shriek ' _Rape_ ' in a voice so high pitched Dolphin's in the ocean will be calling 911...”

His eyebrows met and he huffed again before grabbing his case and nodding to the door.

“Come on! We're going to be late!”

You sighed and walked ahead.

It was going to be a long day.

 

*

 

 

Long didn't cover it.

Every second dragged and Owlsley spoke, at length, for all of it.

Every traffic jam became a lecture on immigration, financial projections and how things were in 'his day' and though you tightened your hands on the wheel until the knuckles were white. He didn't seem to get the message.

At breakfast you heard him muttering to the rather boring looking man who he greeted in a warm way yet spoke to as though he were trying to seal a rather cut throat deal and mentioned a few things about: 'shutting her up' and 'financially viable to throw money at her' and finished with a stiff handshake and a 'make sure she signs it so when she talks we can sue her'.

You had it mentally written down so you could use it against him if Fisk needed intel.

His son, Lee was his father but younger and taller with the same arrogance and lack of tact though despite his 'marriage' took a few seconds too long when looking at you.

It was mostly boring things they discussed as you sat at the bar, keeping an eye out and nursing a soda water and lime.

From the lip-reading you did it was mostly about property, and the kids.

After that, you drove him to his chiropractor. Mostly hearing about his grand kids and how Lee was raising them wrong and you hoped to God that the chiropractor's hand slipped and they accidentally killed him when he was in there so you didn't have to hear his stuffy voice for a third day.

As he left you in the car at the parking lot after putting on an exaggerated staggered limp to go into the office with, you checked your cell.

No missed calls. No texts.

_Hmm. Wesley really was taking this seriously._

For a moment you considered texting him to bait him into a response, but his comment about being emotional still smarted.

_No, fuck him._

_Why give him the satisfaction._

You sat back in the car, your head resting against the headrest and sighed out, your hand pressing on your stomach to check how badly the bruising was hurting now.

The painkillers had worn off just after lunch and you didn't feel you needed them anymore, though they may work on the headache you had developed in the car with Owlsley going on and on and on.

Your phone buzzed.

You flipped it out in an embarrassingly rapid way and checked.

'One New Message from J.'

Swiping it, you opened it.

 

_'Bring Owlsley to meeting at 4.30pm. Address to follow. W'_

_Hmmm._

_A sudden meeting._

_The masked man? The Union Allied Scandal? Something else?_

You sighed and rested your head back, looking at your watch. His appointment should have been for an hour, and whether or not he liked it, if he wasn't out by 4:05, you were going in there and dragging his half-nude ass out.

 

*

 

As it stood, Leland was out by 3:45 and was complaining about how that 'Chinese bitch' was too heavy handed and had made him feel worse.

He went on to snap and snarl how these 'Oriental types' spoke such little English that they couldn't understand words like ' _stop_ ' or ' _ow_!'.

You rather felt she just wanted to inflict pain on the old bastard and admired her.

You drove him to the address that Wesley had texted to you and after getting out, opened his door for him in an act of sympathy and amusement so you could watch him hobble to the door.

Following him in, you saw that it wasn't simply a one-on-one meeting.

The elderly Chinese woman, Gao was there. The Russians, that freaky looking Japanese guy was there too. The guy had eyes like a shark.

But no Fisk and No Wesley. Yet.

You were about to back out of the room when one of the Russians looked to you. The uglier one.

“...You.” he began. “Where is he?”

You gave him an insolent stare.

You had no formal need to be polite to these two.

“I'm sure he'll be with you when he's ready.” you replied coldly and closed the door behind you as you backed out.

Straight into someone else.

“Sorry.” you mumbled, turning around and looking up as Wesley stood there.

A smirk appeared on his face.

“Glad you decided to apologize.” he quipped.

You made a noise of disgust and anger.

“Get out of my way.” you snapped, moving aside, but he followed you, his eyes on yours.

“Still in a mood?” he asked, his eyebrow raising.

Your hand went for your mace threateningly. Though you had no intention of using it.

“You're wanted in the peanut gallery.” you retorted. “They want to know where the boss man is.”

Wesley looked to the door, then back to you.

“...after the meeting. Stay behind. I want to talk to you.”

You wanted to suggest he stick his proposition but he was still technically your superior.

You lowered your eyes in submission and shifted past him to sit at the entrance, as security with the others.

Francis' eyes moved to you briefly and then moved away again as you sat opposite him.

Francis was the closest one to Wesley at all times. He was sort of like a body guard to him personally, but acted more as a chauffeur.

“...Hey Fran'.”

He looked up.

“...hey.” he muttered.

You crossed your legs in your black jeans and looked at him.

“...You're close to Wesley, right?”

Francis swallowed and looked towards the door.

“...Right?” you prompted.

“...I think you're probably closer.” he responded.

You raised an eyebrow, but kept your face friendly. You could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

“...how long have you worked for Mr. Fisk?”

Francis shrugged.

“...a while.”

“Longer than I have.” you replied.

He nodded.

“...So you must know about when Mr. Wesley was shot then...”

Francis' eyes widened in alarm but didn't shift from where he was looking.

“...Fran-cis...” you intoned in a singsong way, brushing your boot tip against his calve teasingly. “....C'mon. I've seen the scar...”

He looked up sharply.

“...He said he was shot.” You continued “No exit wound. And that the bullet was found in his lung cavity. Who shot him, Francis?”

Francis swallowed and shrugged.

“Don't bullshit me.” you said quietly leaning forwards. “...I get you want to be loyal to Mr. Wesley but I imagine Mr. Fisk would be mighty pissed off you were running personal errands for him during work time. Like bringing mushrooms to him so he could cook for me.”

Francis swallowed harder.

“...You can't tell him shit. He'll kill you.” he snapped.

“Maybe. Or maybe you should just tell me what you know before I ask him again.”

Francis looked behind him swiftly and then back at you.

“He was protecting Fisk. Someone shot him from the gutter grille. In the sewers.”

“Protecting Fisk?” you repeated. “Wesley isn't a bodyguard.”

“There were gunshots, and he pushed Mr. Fisk in the back of the car, and he got a bullet in the stomach.”

“How bad was it?”

“He could'a bled out in the back of the car. We got him to the hospital just in time. He spent a week in intensive care.”

You swallowed, trying to imagine that tall, impressive man lying in a hospital bed covered in tubes and wires.

It wasn't possible. Wesley had never been that vulnerable.

And for some reason, you couldn't stop thinking of the pale skin of his neck.

“Who did it?”

“It was a case of mistaken identity. Some guys trying to get at the Russians.”

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath and continued.

“...how long did it take him to get back on his feet?”

“A couple'a weeks.” Francis replied. “...wasn't really the same for a few months after that. Think that's why Mr. Fisk took you on. Someone to take care of the problems before they became problems. Extra layer of protection. I think it kinda scared Mr. Wesley. He's never been shot before. Never had a scratch on him before. He doesn't usually see the action.”

No wonder he didn't want to discuss it.

He'd been shot, mortally wounded-almost, spent a week in intensive care and came out shaken and debilitated while protecting Fisk.

You'd always considered your scars as markers you'd survived. He saw his as a marker he had nearly died.

You sat back and sighed.

“Alright. That's enough.”

Francis looked relieved and went back to staring out of the window of the musty room.

“...what really happened yesterday?” he asked.

“What?”

“...you called in sick.”

“I got punched in the gut by someone I was taking out for Fisk.”

Francis shrugged.

“Way he was actin', figured you'd been in a car accident or some shit.” he replied.

“...What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” he replied and got up, heading to the corner to join the others, leaving you to ponder what he'd meant.

Fisk never appeared for the meeting and around half an hour later the door opened again and Owlsley staggered out and looked to you.

“What a waste of time, c'mon. I have a dinner engagement.”

“I'm needed here.” you replied silkily, standing up and crossing to the other room.

His eyes seemed to pop with rage.

“You were assigned to protect me!”

You decided to ignore him and focus on whatever it was Wesley wanted to tell you.

It was either work or personal, either way, much more interesting than babysitting that old sleaze-bag.

Wesley was talking to the old Chinese woman and the two Russians were talking amongst themselves as the Nobu, that creepy Japanese man that never spoke walked past and out.

You decided to wait for Wesley to finish his conversation with the woman who you heard ran a very lucrative drug business in Hell's Kitchen. She was clearly a very important cog in Fisk's operation.

“Hey you.”

You looked up to see one of the Russian's looking at you. Vladimir, you had heard Wesley refer to him as.

“Why you work here?” he asked, smirking at his brother as he looked at you.

You decided to fold your arms and ignore him. You had no need to be friendly with these two morons. You knew what their operation was.

Human trafficking, moving drugs threat and extortion, kidnapping.

Not that you had a reason to be high and mighty. You killed people for money.

But you certainly didn't want to engage with these two crooks.

“You not want to speak?” he asked, moving closer. “...I am thinking that perhaps you are wasted here...”

“I'm happy. Thank you.” you snapped.

“We have bar.” Vladimir continued. “...No need to dirty hands. As long as you aren't shy...”

He put his hand on your cheek and brushed it roughly with his thumb.

You knocked his hand away, lashing out and glaring.

“Put your hand on me again, and I'll break every bone in your arm.” you snarled.

“Ona zlyushchiy , brat . Eto pozor. Ona budet stoit' mnogo.” he said to his brother who laughed and nodded.

_(She is Feisty brother. It's a shame. She would be worth a lot)_

He moved forwards again, and although you didn't feel afraid—you could confidently take him on, it made you feel uncomfortable.

“Suka dolzhna chuvstvovat' sebya nastoyashchim muzhchinoy vnutri neye , chtoby sdelat' yeye ponyat', gde yeye mesto.”

_(The bitch needs to feel a real man inside her to make her realize where her place is.)_

He went to grab your hair this time but a suited arm reached for his and stopped him, gripping the bony tattooed wrist.

“Vy poteryali to nemnogoye , tak kak vy prinesli v etu stranu?”

_(Have you lost what little sense you brought to this country?)_

Anatoly knocked his brother's ribs with his hand and Vladimir turned to face Wesley who was stood there, looking perfectly friendly but with wide, cold eyes and a touch of blush in his cheeks.

“Pochti navernyaka zabyvaya, chto ona mozhet ubit' vas s sharikovoy ruchkoy , yesli vy zalozhit' palets na ney , moy rabotodatel' budet schitat' eto lichnoy ugrozy i bor'by s nim sootvetstvuyushchim obrazom.” he continued smoothly, a self-assured smirk on his face that wasn't doing a marvellous job at hiding the malice in his eyes.

_(Almost certainly forgetting that she could kill you with a ballpoint pen, if you lay a finger on her, my employer will consider it a personal threat and deal with it appropriately.)_

“Vy menya ne ispugayesh' , vy chopornogo malen'kaya suka.” Vladimir snarled in Wesley's face.

_(You don't scare me, you prissy little bitch.)_

“Net?” he asked, pulling a face of mock-consideration, rolling his eyes. “Vozmozhno polucheniye anal'no narusheny v tyuremnykh dushevykh kazhdyy den' v techeniye sleduyush chikh 60 let moshchi . Ya slyshal posle 10 let, vy mozhete prolaps .”

_(No? Perhaps getting anally violated in the prison showers every day for the next 60 years might. I hear after 10 years, you can prolapse.)_

His cold blue eyes moved to the brother.

“Ili imeyushchiye vashi konechnosti razbrosany otsyuda Vestchester?”

_(Or having your limbs scattered from here to Westchester?)_

You weren't sure what he was saying, but you knew that it had the intended effect as Vladimir shrugged off Wesley's hand with a hiss.

“Vy polagayetes' na vlagalishcha dlya zashchity. Vash operatsiya trakhal . Prikhodite , Tolya”

_(You rely on cunts for protection. Your operation is fucked. Come, Tolya)_

With that, the two sloped off, slamming the door behind them.

You saw that the room was now empty but for you and him, he must have finished with Gao a while back. There was a deafening silence that rang in every corner of the room, powerful and overwhelming.

He pulled a handkerchief from his top pocket in a swift and fluid motion and reached to rub your cheek with it where he Russian had touched you but you shied away and wheeled on him.

“What the fuck, Wesley?!” you growled.

Wesley seemed startled but soon regained his composure.

“If you think for one moment I am going to stand by and let them talk to you like that then you are mistaken.” he replied quietly, a shake in his voice. His eyes flicked to you accusingly. “You don't speak Russian, do you...”

“No. But threats are universal. I don't care what he said about me. I had it.”

“You are NOT authorized to deal with them.” He began firmly. “I am. And any fracture in this delicate understanding between them all and the operation is ruined. HIS work, is ruined.”

“I am SICK, of this shit.” you snarled back. “You only ever think of HIM, and HIS work. When the fuck are you going to grow a backbone and do something for yourself for once?”

His lips parted in surprise, but his forehead contorted with anger and he moved forwards swiftly, his hands on your cheeks, painfully holding your face close to his, his lips inches from yours, pushing you against the desk that Fisk usually occupied.

“...I do what I must, to ensure his success. I care very deeply, for him.”

Your eyes had trouble focusing on his, your lashes were brushing the glass of his spectacles.

You swallowed nervously, scared for what was to come next...

“...But I care...very deeply for _you_.” he replied softly, his breath on your lips. “...as weak as that makes me.

Which is why I urge you...to keep the _fuck_ out...of this.” he nodded, his eyebrows raising. “Out of all of this...”

He released you and started to walk away, correcting his tie.

“...You care about me...deeply?” you asked his retreating back, feeling yourself ache for him again.

He paused, turning his head to acknowledge you.

“You heard me.”

“...You can't just do that, James.” you began, using his first name to show you were serious. “...You can't just say that and walk away. I am NOT one of the men you use those bully boy tactics on. I am your LOVER.”

He turned around now. Your words having the desired effect.

“...Yes. Yes you are.” he replied, his tone measured but trembling. “...And I worry for you now. It was not my intention to have this happen. To develop feelings for you. To have another soul, another life, resting on my shoulders as well as his.”

“...You took a bullet for him.” you retorted. Not sure of what else to say. Not sure of why you had said it.

He almost smirked.

“You want to know if I will take one for you?” he asked, folding his arms.

You didn't want to admit it had crossed your mind, but you didn't want to outright deny it. You wanted to see what he said next.

“...I hope that it never comes to it.” he replied, answering your silence. “I hope I never see you in that circumstance. Because I did NOT sign up for this, and I don't think you did either.”

You swallowed.

“...I hope you don't, either.” you replied finally, your voice shaking. “...But I will not stop. This is MY job. This is MY calling. And I will NOT give up, just because you're afraid you're going to see me on the slab of a morgue!”

You were fire now.

You were an earthquake.

A natural disaster inhabiting a body

“...We move, in dangerous circles, James.” You said, staring him in the eye. “And now that it's started to get real, you can either try and stop what we have here...or we can deal with what comes next as it happens.”

His jaw was set, his eyes seemed to glaze slightly.

“...Both of us...” he began very quietly. “...are lucky to see another day where we aren't in four walls of a prison cell, or the inside of a body bag.” he replied. “...But I don't want...” he breathed. “...to give you up.”

You swallowed, your heart beating so fast that you were certain he could hear it in your breathing.

“...I will NOT...give you up, _Ellen_!” he snapped finally.

You opened your arms to him and he moved into them, embracing you and holding you tightly, his stomach with its scar pressed against yours with its bruising and you felt as though in some way, you were whole again.

After feeling so fractured for most of your life.

Nobody had ever fought for you in this way before. And even though he were bound to Fisk, you knew that he felt was that the way that you felt for him.

“... _Ellen_...” he whispered in your ear.

The single name that had begun as a joke, as a fake, as a play on words that now meant more than your real name seemed to be the axis on which this fake world that felt more real than the pain and the aching and the blood and the smell of gun smoke and oil ever had and having him here, in your arms, his head low on your shoulder, his hands holding you tightly was more intimate than any twisted sheet, sweaty sex session you had shared with anyone.

“...James...” you echoed, kissing the side of his head.

He nuzzled the side of your head, kissing below your ear softly.

“...I will defend what is mine with every last breath...” he murmured into the soft skin.

You pulled back slightly and looked into his eyes and pressed a hard kiss to his lips.

He kissed you back with a fire that had been burning since he had growled at the Russians in their native tongue and you found yourself being pushed onto Fisk's desk in that dirty warehouse, the papers flying off and to the floor as he moved for the zip on your pants.

His lips pressed greedily, needily and possessive against yours, his jaw bumping against yours as he claimed your lips again and this time not with lust but something far more potent and real.

All facades had been cast aside and now there was nothing but raw emotion and bare feelings aflame inside both of you, culminating in this inferno.

You felt him slide your jeans a little way down, enough to expose you, your ass pressing against the varnish of the wooden desk, some paper trapped under you as you felt him fumble with his fly and felt his warm, hard cock bump against your inner thigh.

He moved into you in one stroke and you gave a soft cry as you struggled to accommodate his hard length with barely any foreplay.

He looked down at you, your hands gripping the collar of his jacket, his eyes searching yours as he filled you up, for the first time without a barrier.

“...h...how do I feel?” you shuddered, smirking slightly.

He ran his hand through your hair.

“ _Paradiso_.” he murmured and pressed another kiss to your lips before pushing into you again.

The fact he wasn't just fucking you any more, that he was.. _.making love_...to you was something so much more heady, and potent.

So much more sensual and erotic that you were getting worked up, on Fisk's desk.

His subordinate screwing his assassin on his desk...

_God...it was turning you on..._

“...James...” you moaned, biting your lip as his hand moved under your shirt, finding your breast and scooping it out of your bra, he ran his thumb around the nipple as he quickened his pace.

“...Come inside me...come inside me, James...” you murmured desperately, resting your head back against the edge of the table as he pinned his other hand beside your head, getting enough leverage to rock back and forth inside you now.

You wanted to feel his cum inside you. Feel it shoot out of him in hot, long spurts.

You wanted to feel it ooze out of you later, feeling how intimate he had been with you, a reminder of how he had claimed you, not once but twice that day.

“God...Oh God...” he panted, holding onto your waist now before thrusting harder.

Your skull grazed the desk hard, you'd have bruises tomorrow but you didn't care. You wanted him.

_You wanted him._

He threw his head back and groaned heavily as he emptied himself into you. Pumping every last drop of himself into you, his jacket half off, his tie strangled out of is knot, sweat beading his brow...

He looked magnificent and you felt amazing.

He looked down at you, and caressed your hair, smiling at you.

“...James...”

“...Well, isn't THIS...interesting.”

The pair of you looked up from the desk to see Leland stood in the doorway, a look of sheer delight on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really nervous about the reception of this chapter, so I hope you guys like it. Let me know below what you thought!
> 
> All translations taken from google translate.


	7. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Leland Owlsley finds you in a compromising position on Fisk's desk, Wesley works quickly to limit the damage, but what can you do to halt an impending tsunami?

Your face burned as Wesley faced Owlsley. He had hastily zipped up his fly and turned around giving you enough cover to redress yourself before asking him what the hell he was doing lurking in doorways.

Of course, Owlsley, naturally, had the moral high-ground here.

“So, you two are screwing around?” he had asked, barely able to get the words out from behind the smirk that was plastered all over his leathery face.

“Well...” Wesley began. “...I don't know.” he continued correcting his glasses, buttoning his jacket “...What did it look like from where you were stood?”

“Looks like you were dipping your pen in the company ink.” he chuckled. “Question I have is, does the big guy know you're banging the hired muscle?”

“I can't think of why it matters to you, Leland.” he remarked off-handedly though you could see the back of his neck glowing red.

“I think that he'd like to know why there are creases in his contracts.” he said gesturing to the desk you'd been laid on just moments ago. “I wondered why you looked so strange the other day when she called in sick. Did you run round there for some afternoon delight?”

You scoffed in disgust, turning your head. He made it sound so sordid.

“And you, Missy...” he began, pointing at you. “...acting like some common streetwalker...”

Wesley set his jaw.

“How's your son? Leland? Lee, was it?”

Owlsley looked at him sharply.

“...leave my son out of this, Wesley.” he snarled.

“Still enjoying life in Scarsdale, how are the grand-kids?”

“Leave him OUT of this!” he snapped.

Wesley smirked a little.

“...I think that...we understand each other here, Leland. I think that if we kept private matters, out of business, we can continue to coexist as...civilly...as before.”

Owlsley gave a soft gasp of laughter, his eyes cold and calculating.

“Really?”

“Hmm.” Wesley nodded. “...I think your son and daughter in law, and their beautiful son and daughter would appreciate that.”

Owlsley looked to you.

You raised your chin in defiance.

“...Don't bother turning up for work tomorrow. I don't want you near me.” he sneered before looking to Wesley “...thought you had more class.”

Wesley smiled unpleasantly at him.

“...Drive safely.”

After he had left, he turned to you and sighed deeply, his entire posture screaming defeat.

“Well, that's going to change a few things.” he began, running his left hand down his face.

“Do you think he'll talk?” you asked him.

“I'm certain he will.”

“How do you think Fisk will react?”

“Well...not well. But Owlsley has a penchant for the dramatic. We may be able to tone down some of the more extreme details. Perhaps move our liaison to a cupboard instead of his desk...”

You looked back at the desk and began to straighten some of it out, his hand stilled yours and he looked at you.

“...Listen to me.” he began. “...If I call you, and I tell you to get out of Hells Kitchen, I want you to run.”

“James. I'm not going to run from him.” You replied. “...We're...we're together. This is a romance, not a fucking crime.”

“It's a slight...” he replied, looking down at the desk.“I do not want to see you hurt.”

“I am a grown woman.” you replied. “...and I will not apologize for my actions.”

“This is serious.”

“So am I. James. I would rather die on my feet than die on my knees.”

He sighed and hung his head.

“...Fuck.”

You ran your hands up the side of his face and cradled it between them.

“...James. Please...”

He looked at you, his blue eyes deep with concern.

“...I can take care of myself. Nothing is going to happen.”

He stroked a strand of your hair back and nodded.

“...We'll see.”

He began to rearrange the paper work neatly, making the table look as it did before as you folded your arms.

“...Owlsley's probably taken the car.” he murmured. “

“Looks like I lost my company car privileged... I'm grabbing a cab home...” you replied.

“No. You're coming with me.”

“...With you?”

“Hmmm.” he agreed. “...If I am to hang, I'd like to earn the punishment.”

 

 

*

 

Francis didn't question why he was taking you home with Wesley, or why Wesley was unusually curt with him when he got into the car and asked him to drive you both to his apartment.

You had been back there a few times, though mostly it was in the dead of night and you were back in a taxi as soon as you were finished up to keep up appearances though you felt tonight that he wasn't in the mood for sex.

And to be perfectly honest neither were you.

You could see his jaw tensing, a telltale tic in it as the lights from passing street-lamps illuminated his handsome face making him seem tired and irritable.

As you pulled up, he handed you the key to his apartment and nodded for you to go in so that he could speak to Francis alone.

You felt almost unsure about taking the key and opening his apartment alone. The security there seemed quite tight and you didn't exactly fancy dealing with ANOTHER scene tonight but you took it anyway and headed in.

As it was, concierge didn't glance at you twice as you headed into the elevator and up to his floor.

It seemed he had a good memory and regarded you as one of Mr. Wesley's frequent guests now.

You wondered what he was telling Francis, if he was telling him about what had happened, and how much to tell Fisk if he asked him.

Francis seemed to be very loyal to Wesley, but how much of that would stand when he was at the mercy of Fisk's temper?

You let yourself into his apartment, and switched on the lights, heading to the bar to fix him something strong to settle his nerves.

You had learned that he was partial to a Whiskey, without ice on nights when he was stressed and though you did not intend to play the role of 'wifey', had somehow learned what it took to calm him.

He walked through the door a few moments later and you nodded to the coaster on the glass coffee table where his glass stood.

He locked the door behind him and sat down, popping the button on the bottom of his jacket taking the drink and sipping on it.

You sat down opposite, looking to him.

“Needed that?”

He nodded.

“It's been...quite a day...”

You nodded in agreement, watching him run his thumb along the rim of the glass, staring at the blank LCD wall mounted television opposite in deep thought.

He looked...so young sat there. His jacket hunched up slightly where he had slid down in the couch cushions, his collar slightly askew, his tie slightly loosened, staring into space.

He was older than you but now, sat there, looking a little lost, he seemed so young.

And guilt, who had never been a familiar visitor to you, suddenly let itself in and reared its ugly head as you realized if you had never reciprocated his advances, none of this would have happened.

“...am I worth it?” you asked in a hushed tone in the darkness of the room.

He looked over at you, his dark brows meeting.

“If you weren't, you wouldn't be sat here now.” he replied and took another sip decisively.

“...I think I should tell him tomorrow...” he sighed. “...better that it comes from me, rather than from Owlsley direct. Fisk tolerates Owlsley at best. I may be saving the man's life.”

You folded your arms.

“...And me?”

“I'd busy myself...” he replied. “...Find something useful to do. Invent a lead on the masked devil or something. Make yourself look irreplaceable.”

“I am irreplaceable.” you half smiled, trying to interject some humour into the moment.

He looked over.

“...Hmmm. I'd say you were.”

He rested his head back, cradling the glass on his abdomen as he stared up at the ceiling.

You could see the world around him shaking and cracking and you felt you were the earthquake that had caused it.

“...I'm sorry, James.”

He shook his head.

“No. Don't be. We've been playing with fire since that first night. It's time to face the consequences.”

“I didn't want this for you.” you replied, looking down at your hands in the dim half light of New York City that shone from the half pulled blinds.

He sat up, putting his glass on the table and opened his arms, expecting you to come to him.

It was strange...

He'd never done that before.

You got up and walked over and let him wrap his arms around your middle, pressing his head to your stomach.

You caressed his hair soothingly, wondering what was going through his mind and wanting to find a way to fix this mess you'd caused.

“...Shall we go to bed?” you asked quietly.

He nodded into your stomach, looking up at you.

You gave him a half smile, stroking his hair back from his forehead, ruffling the perfectly combed curls.

“Come on then...”

 

*

 

Wesley was blessed with being able to sleep through anything it seemed.

He had got undressed that night and after pressing against your naked body for a few moments had fallen straight to sleep.

You were somewhat relieved.

You weren't 'in the mood' and neither was he, it seemed.

On the other hand were unable to sleep for worrying over what was to come, and without Wesley's calm presence, you were a lot more paranoid about it.

Leland Owlsley, as you had learned was shrewd, narrow-minded, and cruel with a mean streak that was a mile wide and he and Wesley rarely saw eye to eye on anything.

In fact, you imagined he hated Wesley a little more than he disliked you.

So going to Fisk with some salacious gossip about you and Wesley seemed more and more likely with every moment.

But whatever Wesley knew about his kids, his grand-kids, it had certainly shut him up.

But in the sea of uncertainty, there was one buoy of hope.

Wesley had admitted he had feelings for you, and whilst you had been trying to violently repress your own feelings for him, you felt that it was no longer necessary...

And perhaps a moot point now given that Owlsley was going to shout it from the rooftops.

If only you'd been able to catch the masked man and kill him for Fisk. That would have solved the problem entirely.

You could have ripped off Owlsley's neck in front of Fisk and not ired him if you delivered the devil of hells kitchen to Fisk.

Looking to him, pressed against your chest, his thick dark nest of hair brushing against the bare skin of your nipple, you wondered if it had all been worth it.

The secrecy, the sneaking around, the clandestine meetings in car parks, docks, your place, his place, avoiding each others eye at work and if what was to come was going to be worth it.

The heavy feeling in your chest that was something between guilt and grief was a resounding yes.

He had been firmly set in an ivory tower, on a pedestal so far from your reach, and now you had smashed it to bring him down to your level and suddenly everything anyone had ever said about you...

How you were worthless, scum, pointless street trash that belonged in the gutter...

Was meaningless.

He had defended you. Against Russian gangsters, against Leland Owlsley.

He was prepared to fight for you. To lose it all for you.

How could you even begin to reward that kind of loyalty?

 

*

Wesley's alarm clock beeped persistently at 6am to wake you up and you reached over to slap it on the head only to find it wasn't there.

You opened your eyes and looked around, half wondering when you'd fallen asleep to see him sat there, looking through the blinds of his window holding the alarm clock that was now silent, dressed in an unfamiliar black silk dressing gown.

“...James?”

He turned to face you.

“...Morning. Coffee?”

You shook your head.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked sitting up.

“A while.” he admitted.

You crawled over and knelt on the bed near his chair.

He hadn't shaved or showered yet.

You ran your hand gently down his face, feeling the grain graze your hand.

He gave you a soft smile and looked back outside.

“...This would all go away if I disappeared.” you began. “...If I failed to turn up for work. Left the cit--”

His eyes sharply moved to you.

“...Is that what you think I want?”

You shook your head.

You knew that it wasn't, but it was an option at least.

“...besides...” he began putting the alarm clock on the window ledge and patting his lap invitingly. “...I think you running away just cements the fact that we should feel guilty.”

You looked at him as you moved into his lap, his hand running up and down your bare thigh.

“...What do you mean?”

“I've been thinking...technically, although it may be considered....improper, what we've done is perfectly fine.”

You nodded, although you felt Fisk wouldn't see it that way.

He looked up at you.

“...besides, it's not impacted on our working relationship. If anything, I'd say you've surpassed individual expectations.”

You raised an eyebrow and gave him a bemused smirk.

“Still...Owlsley will report back and tell Fisk he doesn't want me around any more. And Fisk will want to know why.” you said, kissing the top of his head, smelling yesterday's stale gel in his hair.

“Which is why I intend to tell him first, and be there when Leland makes his big reveal...It'll give me such...pleasure to see his face drop when he finds out his little titbit of information is useless.”

You smiled at him as he moved his hand to your chin and brought you in for a kiss.

Pressing his lips against yours he smiled.

“Now...how about something to put a spring in my step?”

You grinned at him as he scooped you up and put you on the bed.

You lay back and for a moment were able to put it all on hold and just enjoy this pleasure for a while as he crawled over you, discarding the black robe and moving between your legs, slotting perfectly against your body, his erection pressing against you as he kissed your neck and jawline softly.

His lips sculpting every angle, every detail. Capturing you like an artist captures his subject.

You murmured in response as his hands gripped your thighs and ass, squeezing the soft handfuls of firm flesh in his hands, driving his slight nails into them, leaving beautiful red rivets of need.

“...I want you...so much...” he murmured into your breasts.

“I know...” you breathed. “I can feel it...”

He gave a soft, husky chuckle and looked up at you before sliding down your body and pressing soft kisses over your stomach, running down...down...down...

You bit your lip and closed your eyes as his attention found your soft, wet outer lips again and lay there as he teased and kissed the skin, feeling his breath against the most sensitive part of you, hearing him moan and murmur into the flesh as though he were enjoying something delicious.

He began to suck and kiss at your inner lips, sliding his tongue along the juicy tenderness of you.

As your hands curled up the taut under-sheet of the bedding, you heard him give a breathy chuckle and move on to your clit.

His tongue wriggled and flicked over it, occasionally lapping at you as you groaned and murmured your encouragement, flexing your thighs as his fingers peeled apart the outer lips of you and kissed and licked every last inch of your red, sensitive flesh.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, his fingers sliding into you and brushing for that soft spot that sent you off like a rocket.

“...Fancy trying something different?”

You gazed down at him, your breathing coming in hard snatches now.

“...Hmmm...” you agreed and gave a soft moan as he found your G-Spot.

He gave a light laugh and rubbed in slow, firm circles.

“...How about you go on top...?”

“Yes...Yes!” you murmured desperately, curling towards his fingers.

“Good...” he smirked and withdrew his fingers before kneeling and laying down besides you on the bed.

You were desperate to have him rub against that place inside you that made you feel like a champagne cork ready to pop so climbed astride him and holding him in place, slid onto him slowly.

His eyelashes flickered closed and he gave a soft grunt as you slid onto the base of him.

He reached up to support your hips and waist and smirked.

“...You feel amazing.” he uttered.

You rewarded him with a roll of your hips and he gave a gasp that seemed not to want to give.

You chuckled and began to ride him slowly, moving his hand to your clit and reaching down to hold onto his shoulders as you slid on and off of his hard cock, feeling the head ridge up against your softness and knowing it was twitching, pulsing, hard inside you. Ready to go off.

You could fucking _hear_ how wet he had got you and as you held on tighter, your nails breaking his skin, making little red cuts appear on his hard shoulders you could feel the knot that was growing in the base of your stomach, just above your pelvis growing bigger...bigger...bigger...

“Oh...fuck...fuck....FUCK!” 

You felt yourself climax, moving up and down on him urgently as his fingers teased and rubbed harder. You were shaking hard, your breasts jiggling, your skin prickled and bumped as an orgasm tore through you.

He sat up slightly and held onto you, his arms wrapped around you, his fingers gripping your skin on your back, pushing his cock deeper into you now that he could feel you drench his hardness with your cum.

He buried his head into your breasts, stifling a groan of arousal as you moaned and collapsed against him.

He ran his fingers through your hair and looked up at you, admiring the sex-haze you were slowly trying to break through as your body's every nerve and muscle waded through the left over spasms of your climax.

He leaned up and kissed you passionately, his tongue that was tangy with your intimate taste touching yours and you were ready to get him off too.

You braced yourself on his shoulders, in this half sitting position and began to ride his cock desperately, wanting to feel him inside you again. 

Wanting to have his seed inside you. 

He grunted, feeling you work him hard again and held on tight, working with you, pushing into you now, feeling him brush against the walls of you, feeling it hit something hard, deep inside of you...

“Oh God...James...James...YES!” 

He nodded, holding you tight, his head pressed against your chest, his hair wet with perspiration as he forced himself deep inside you, again and again, his fingers sweaty and nails dragging along your ass now.

His breath hitched, and you felt him throw his head back and cry out.

“FUCK! FUCK!!!”

He came inside you. Thick lashes of his cum hitting your inner walls as his cock twitched and throbbed inside you.

“...fuck....fuck....” he panted, back into you and holding there, panting into your damp breasts, the frame of his glasses pressing into your bone.

You ran your hand down his back and held him close, caressing his skin.

There was a comfort in knowing that the silence that followed was enough to make him content, his arms wrapped around you, his lips kissing the skin of your breasts until you looked to him.

“...Come on...time to face the music.” 

He looked up, his blue eyes wild with arousal.

“...promise me a dance later?”

You smiled and kissed his lips.

“...all night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for your continued support and kind comments!


	8. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and James Wesley finally face up to Fisk with what you've been up to in the last few months before Leland can run his mouth.  
>  But is this the end of your worries?

You weren't quite sure what Wesley was thinking when you were towel drying your hair and you heard him tell Fisk that he needed to speak to him. Regarding you.

You almost grabbed the phone out of his hand when he volunteered you to attend but he was too swift and had somehow managed to sort of pirouette and waltz past you into the kitchen leaving you to fall onto the bed.

You lay there wondering if he was perhaps losing the plot but when he walked back in, holding a coffee and looking at you half-bemused, you stared up at him and asked him why.

He had insisted that it would look much less guilty if you attended and would almost look as if you were both asking for his blessing to continue rather than admitting to a crime.

It seemed half-rational, half-suicidal.

So now you were sat, in the car, with Wesley.

In complete silence.

He was staring straight ahead, looking at the back of Francis' headrest as though it were the front page of The New York Times.

You on the other hand, were trying not to let the toast and jam you had at Wesley's come back up.

You weren't that fond of blackcurrant jam anyway, but add nervousness into the mix and the end result wasn't gonna be pleasant.

You had faced down 8 men in an alley with with a broken bottle.

Had been sat on the end of a gun for 6 hours waiting for the right person to make the wrong mistake.

Blown up an arms factory because they didn't want share.

Not even breaking a sweat.

Facing your boss. The man who had given you those orders to carry out.

Terrified you.

For a man who paid others to do the bloody work, you noticed Fisk always wore dark colors, had bruised and contused hands, black fingernails, coarse knuckles. Cuts, and grazes on his fingers.

He was a man who knew how to use his fists well. 

You must have been showing your fear because you felt Wesley's hand close around yours and pull it to sit in the seat between you, holding onto it firmly, the thumb sweeping across the back of your hand softly to calm you.

You looked to him, and although he didn't look at you, he was smiling.

You gave him a half-smile and kept silent for the rest of the journey.

Francis pulled up outside of an unfamiliar building. He got out and opened Wesley's door. He got out and you were reminded of the night at _Norma,_ the opera that had prompted all of this when he had opened your door for the first time.

You waited as he walked around and opened your door, his face impassive and inscrutable as he did.

You got out and nodded to him in thanks and looked up towards the building.

Wesley looked to you briefly, he gave you a short smile to give you courage, or so you assumed.

“His next meeting is in forty five minutes. It gives us at least half an hour to discuss matters. I suggest you finish up by stating you have a lead on the masked man. Make something up...”

“Make something up?”

“Hmmm. Something credible.”

“...That I saw him wandering around Walmart or something?”

“ _Ellen_ , please take this seriously.” he sighed.

You looked back up at the building.

“And if Leland has already got to him?”

“I'd know by now.”

You nodded.

“Let's get this over with.”

“...Listen...” he began, taking your elbow.

You looked to him.

“...Regardless of how this goes, please know, that...”

You raised an eyebrow.

“...I am...very grateful...for our continued time together.”

You nodded.

“Me too.”

He took a deep breath and opened the door for you.

You moved to the elevator, though you had already clocked the stairs in need of a quick exit and judging by the buildings, you could free run to the next room and use their fire exit to get down the stairs--

The doors opened and Wesley ushered you inside buttoning his jacket, leaving the bottom button undone.

He always did that.

As the doors opened, you felt prompted to ask a question that had never crossed your mind before.

“...Who taught you to behave so classy?”

He looked to you, a look of amusement.

“...My father.”

You nodded.

“...who taught you to fight?” he asked.

“... _My_ father.”

He nodded and faced the polished doors again.

“...I don't imagine they'd get on if they met.” Wesley remarked as the elevator jerked upwards.

“Your father would need a ouiji board.” you replied.

“No he wouldn't...”

“...Oh.”

The elevator stopped and you heard Wesley take a sharp breath in and walk out first, not looking back for you as you he stepped forwards.

You had resigned yourself to the fact that Fisk would always be a priority in Wesley's life and that you would come second to his work and to his employer, but at least now you were more comfortable that it would be a close second.

You saw him stop before a door at the end of the long corridor and wait for you and when you were a pace or two behind, he knocked twice.

“...Come in.”

Wesley opened the door and walked in first. You knew to stand outside until called, though you could hear exactly what was being said.

“Good Morning, Wesley.”

“Good Morning, Sir. Any matters that needed attending to urgently?”

“Hmmm.” 

There was a beat.

“You seem...unsettled?”

“I am unsettled that you have called...an early morning meeting to discuss security.”

“It's nothing related to security. I dare say the Mayor himself could not boast a more secure detail.”

“What is this about then, Wesley?”

“A...personal matter, Sir.”

“...Oh?”

“She's waiting outside. May I invite her to join us for this?”

“...Yes.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

You heard Wesley's smart shoes on the polished floor and hoped he had a plan.

He opened the door to you and looking to you, jerked his head slightly to invite you in.

You stepped in and looked to Fisk who was sat at his desk, his forehead furrowed with confusion and concern as he regarded you.

You were wearing yesterdays clothing and wondered if he would notice and you probably smelled like Wesley's hair products.

Or were not wearing make up.

Fisk seemed the kind of man who seemed to notice everything.

“...Sir.” Wesley began, folding his arms in front of him, coming to join you again, standing at your left. “Over the last few weeks--”

You tuned out of what Wesley was saying, watching Fisk instead, you saw his eyes move from his assistant, to you, scanning and surveying you as Wesley used your name, your real name and said something you had been waiting for him to say for quite a while.

“--developed feelings for one another.”

You forced yourself to keep looking at Fisk who was now staring at Wesley, looking rather sour.

“--I can appreciate the concern that--”

“You've...kept this from me...Wesley?” Fisk asked, a threat of anger in his voice.

Wesley corrected his glasses.

“Sir. It was not my intention to keep this from you. Only that with recent events being what they were, that I have not considered it a concern enough to bring to your attention.”

Fisk looked back at you now, and then back to Wesley.

“I wish to discuss this with you. Alone.”

_ Well shit... _

_That went badly._

_ But then again. How else could it have gone? _

Wesley inclined his head in your direction but did not look to you.

“...Give us the room...please?”

You nodded once and nodding respectfully to Fisk, you left the room quickly, closing the door behind you and began to strain your ears to listen to what he had to say.

“...this is improper, Wesley.” Fisk began again.

“Sir. I understand that concern--”

“--It did not stop you.”

“Sir. It was not my intention--”

“As you have said before!”

You heard Wesley heave a great sigh.

“...Sir, the...the heart wants...what it wants...”

Your own heart seemed to swell at this and you hid a smile...badly.

“...This will compromise operations...”

“But Sir...” Wesley continued. “...Operations have not been compromised.”

There was a gruff sigh, a shifting of papers.

“I put a great deal of trust in you, Wesley.”

“And that trust has not been unfounded.”

“I tell...you things. Things that I would not want...repeated.”

“And they have been kept in absolute confidence.”

There was a silence and you could hear Wesley walk swiftly across the floor, away from you, towards Fisk.

“My primary concern, has always, and will always be, the success of this operation. And your ascent, towards your rightful place as leading this city out of darkness and into light.”

“Your words, Wesley, are honeyed.”

“But, true. Did you believe the words I told you yesterday? The day before? A month ago?”

“Hmm...” you heard Fisk huff. “And when this ends badly?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Operations will not be compromised.”

You heard Fisk grumble.

“I am too busy to deal with this now...”

“Understood.”

“...Now, regarding the Prohaszka holdings...”

“I have the files you asked for--” Wesley volunteered.

Just then, the elevator opened and Owlsley thundered out and towards Fisk's door.

“...Get out of my way!” he began. “I need to speak with him.”

“He's in a meeting.” You countered, standing in front of the door.

Owlsley made a mocking face.

“...Oh Really? Well, what I have to tell him is probably more important!” He pushed you aside and you let him.

Because you wanted Wesley to enjoy that moment he had been anticipating since he formed this plan.

“We are in the middle of a meeting, Leland!” you heard Fisk bellow, already quite pissed off by the sounds of it.

“No, no, Sir...” you heard Wesley begin. “...I am sure whatever Mr. Owlsley has to say is important for him to miss his early morning aquarobics class...”

“Very funny, Romeo.” he snarked. “...did you know these two...have been in...congress?”

_Congress?_

_ Who the hell used terms like that any more? _

“As a matter of fact, Leland. I am aware of that fact...”

Your heart was beating quickly.

Whatever Leland said in the next few minutes would need to be defused by Wesley rapidly. And you had faith in him. If anyone could talk their way out of this, it was Wesley.

“Oh. So I guess he's informed you about me finding them screwing on your desk.”

“...Leland. You go too far.” you heard Wesley mutter darkly, lying through his teeth.

“Oh? I caught them...I _n Flagrante delicto_. On your desk yesterday. Going at it like a couple of animals!”

There was a silence.

“...Yesterday, after the meeting had concluded. I spoke with Gao on a few matters regarding her business. After which I remained behind to make a few telephone calls.” he replied. “...I rather feel that what Mr. Owlsley wishes to communicate to you, Sir is that he may have seen me discuss her health with her after her incident with Cook, I may have shown some indication of my concern in an affectionate manner.”

“I do not have the time to indulge this matter.” you heard Fisk rumble.

“They were fucking on your desk!”

You heard the scrape of a chair and Fisk's booming voice.

“Keep your playground politics to yourself, Leland. You are embarrassing yourself!”

You could feel the satisfaction rippling through the air towards you from Wesley and knew that tonight he would probably want to celebrate.

“...Now, unless you have anything further to discuss, I would urge you to go home and get a grip...”

“Perhaps take a cold shower, Leland.” you heard Wesley remark.

“...Fine. Believe what you want. Whole organization will go to shit if this carries on. And I told you first!”

“Noted, Leland.” Fisk replied offhand. “Thank you.”

You heard Owlsley turn and start muttering and stood back from the door, to allow him through.

“Perhaps you need a break. Leland...” Wesley called out. “...Go stay with the family...take it easy...”

“Enough.” you heard Fisk rumble. 

You saw Owlsley pause, turn and then carry on through the door, slamming it behind him.

He looked to you, grimaced and walked back towards the elevator.

“...Is it true?”

Your attraction was caught by the conversation back in the room again.

“Of course not.” Wesley replied swiftly. “...She was badly bruised with the incident with Cook. I was offering some comfort. Obviously Leland thinks he can gain some sort of leverage over me by inventing something more sordid.”

“Hmmm.” you heard Fisk concur. “Is that why you told me, then?”

Wesley sighed.

“...I felt it was the right time. Leland is a shrewd businessman. It only makes sense that he would use a situation to his advantage. He was mistaken, clearly.”

Wesley left the insinuation hanging in the air that Fisk could not be so easily fooled.

“Hmmm.” he nodded. “...Reach out to Healy, personally. I want him dealing with Prohaszka.”

“Understood.”

“...And Wesley...”

“Sir.”

“...Send her home, until I have need of her. I do not want you distracted. Not now.”

“...Sir.”

You heard Wesley walk towards the door and instead busied yourself with your cell as though you hadn't been listening.

He looked to you, closing the door behind you and gave you a nod with the ghost of a smirk on his face.

“...Come.”

You walked after him, waiting until you were out of earshot of the door and asked.

“So?”

“He'll be alright. It will take time. I have been asked to dismiss you for the day.”

You nodded.

You'd heard that part.

“I want you to go to my apartment.” he replied.

“I need to go home. I need to change, I have a Japanese Lily that needs a drink, really...really badly.”

“I'll send Francis to deal with it. Collect your things...” he smiled as you entered the elevator together.

“James. Please...” you smirked back as the doors closed. He pulled you to him and pressed a hard kiss to your lips.

You squeaked into the kiss in surprise and he chuckled against your lips, pulling away.

“That was an interesting sound...I may try and replicate it later...”

You wrapped your arms around him again and pressed another soft kiss to his lips, pressing against him warmly in the small metal box.

Fisk knew.

He knew you were together and you were both still employed.

Things were finally looking steady.

No more sneaking.

No more secrecy.

No more dealing with Owlsley.

The elevator opened and were greeted by a man in a mask stood in front of the doors, about 8 yards away, holding a pistol.

Aimed at Wesley.

You quickly pushed in front of Wesley, your body overriding every rational thought of self-preservation to do what you had been trained to do as the sound of the shot rang out in the polished atrium before you could even register what was going on--you felt yourself thrown back against him.

There was a flurry of activity as you watched the man run out of there, his black boots retreating on on the polished floor as you...you...just...

_Wesley...?_

You looked up into Wesley's face, he was speaking...no....shouting...

“FRANCIS!! FRANCIS GET IN HERE NOW! HELP!”

You looked at him, there were flecks of blood on his face, and he was pressing down on you...and that's when you first felt the pain...

Your eyes flicked down your body, your now horizontal body as it lay in Wesley's arms and saw his hand, pressed over your side, slick with blood, a burning pain in a rapidly freezing body.

“...James...” you whispered weakly in surprise, the simple name taking your breath away for all of the wrong reasons.

“...no...no...” he shook his head, he was going pale, sweating “...just...just don't speak...just—FRANCIS!”

You heard heavy footsteps on the floor, saw Francis's black jacket swish into view and you felt yourself quickly get sucked under a void of blessed relief...

Strange...you'd always imagined death to be a lot more violent...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end of the story. Please comment if you enjoyed it, please let me know what you think will happen next!


	9. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions, bargains, and promises to the devil

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned...It has been...some time since my last confession.”

Wesley heard the slot of the wooden panel and knew the priest was listening.

“I'm listening, my son.”

Wesley sat there, the drying blood on his hands, and the frozen panic in his chest where once his heart had been and now it was with her, coaxing her own to beat for his sake as well as her own.

He wasn't sure how he had found his way to the chapel of the hospital, and sat down in the confession box. Perhaps it was a desire to cut himself off from the world and these small, wooden boxes tended to be the one place that one could guarantee being alone.

“...I...I'm a lapsed Catholic, Father...” he admitted. “...I haven't set foot in a church for some time.”

“God's arms are always open, my son.”

“I think perhaps to me, he may...settle for a handshake.”

“Sinners who repent are always forgiven.”

“...I'm not repenting, Father.”

“Forgive me for asking, my son, but then why are you sat here?”

“...I'm in love, Father.” he confessed.

“It's not a sin, my child.”

“There is nothing more sinful than who she is. She is the sort of woman who wears bruises like diamonds, and whose sins are so sweet, that they make the blood on her hands taste like honey.” he muttered.

“...the seal of confession is sacred, my son. But if you are telling me that you have broken the law--”

Wesley closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“It was a metaphor, Father.”

“Ah...I take it this...confession has been prompted by something?”

“A bargain, with God.”

“God does not bargain. He is merciful, but only the devil deals in bargains.”

“The devil shot my woman, Father.”

There was silence.

“...I'm sorry, my son.”

“...Shot her through the chest...penetrating trauma, they told me. Blood loss. Touch and go, the usual shit.”

“...language.”

“She could be dying on the table, Father.”

“...God has a plan for us all.”

Wesley's fists tightened.

“...was what the point of this one then?”

“God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to behold...”

“I don't believe that.”

“Have faith.”

“...Have you ever felt someone's blood, on your hands, father?”

“...No.”

“Ever felt the warmth of their body grow cold under your hands...?”

“...My son...”

“...If she dies, father. I will rip the devil's skin from his bones and make him wish that he had never dared to set his sights on me...”

“...Is this still a metaphor...?”

Wesley got up from the box, and exited, leaving the Father's question unanswered.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this chapter has been so small but I really didn't want to leave you guys without anything for so long.
> 
> I have literally been snowed under with work and real life and a new fandom, but I will not be leaving this story to stagnate. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued patience.
> 
> More updates coming soon....


	10. Mess and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With nothing but time on his hands, Wesley pours his efforts into something more useful...

After his visit to the chapel, Wesley had sat back outside of the emergency room, in the waiting room that seemed to stagnate like an attic that had been locked for an eternity.

Then again, everything in this city stagnated.

Not even something as stirring as this could move it...

He had never been in a public hospital before—well, not as a visitor.

_Was he a visitor?_

_Was he a relative?_

_Next-Of-Kin?_

That's what they'd asked him when they rushed her through to surgery.

“ _Are you her next-of-kin?”_

He'd said yes, gave his name, his insurance details, everything he needed to as he watched her being taken into the ER away from him.

He'd signed paper after paper after paper.

His name, smudging the paper with a blood that had adhered itself to his cuff.

The receptionist took it anyway and then told him to sit down.

He sat down heavily in the plastic seating and stared ahead.

For the first time in his life, he felt utterly, and completely alone.

Nobody to guide him.

Nobody to look to.

Nobody to follow.

Nobody to convene with.

He was alone.

Sat there, in the numbness of it all, he felt this strange peace that had brought with it some sanity, some primordial fight-or-flight clarity that meant while he was in some sort of emotional turmoil that somehow, he was making plans.

Contingency plans in free-fall.

He had gone to the one place where he knew he would be in absolute silence.

Absolute confidence.

The one place that meant sanctuary to him, as it always had. Even as a child.

The church confessional box.

And yes, it had felt good to pour the poison out of himself and taint that box with his promises of revenge...but after that, with a semi-clear head, and Francis at his heels, he began to give semi-conscious orders.

Francis had alerted Paul and Peter to go and guard over Fisk.

Francis was to take the car and have it cleaned.

He was then to go back and report the incident to Fisk.

When Fisk contacted Wesley, as he no doubt would, he would ask Fisk what to do next.

It made sense.

He would know what to do.

He always knew what to do.

And now there was something burrowing away in his chest now. After he had freed the demon of the devil of hells kitchen into that confession box...

Something terrifying and equally unwelcome.

_What if she died...?_

People didn't always survive being shot, even with the best medical attention...

Even if it wasn't a direct shot...they sometimes died in surgery, or from complications.

What if she died...?

He set his jaw and swallowed, looking above his glasses at the world around him, trying to distract himself with the colorful blurs and fuzzy shapes.

_No._

_No thoughts like that._

_Wait._

_Just wait._

_Wait for news._

His fists curled into themselves, his perfectly trimmed nails scraping the skin of his palm as he forced himself to recall in infinitesimal detail the attack with some hope of remembering something, anything that could help him identify who had shot at him...

Of course, nothing more than the obvious swam to the forefront of his mind.

It had been the man in the mask.

Wearing black, from head to toe, the top half of his face covered by that fucking ridiculous mask.

The masked man had tried to assassinate him.

And she had taken the bullet...

Wesley's head dropped a little as he remembered how she had fallen onto him, thrown by the weight of the bullet and how...bewildered she had looked as blood poured out of her.

She had looked so young...like a child surprised when her balloon had popped...

Wesley remembered how much the feel of a bullet seemed to burn.

Not hurt...Burned.

How the pain in his lower abdomen from the scar that seemed to ache and itch now in sympathy was not the intense, demoniac pain you expect when you see someone get shot, or hear about someone who has been shot.

But the numbness, and the impending fear of death. Instant death. Death that was rushing for you now. Ready to greedily claim you...

He found that he had got to his feet and had turned towards the ER, looking at the mania that went on beyond the double doors that forbade him entry, hoping that somewhere beyond them she was fighting...

Fighting as hard as he had.

Somehow, he sat back down until the blood on his cuff had turned a darker shade, and the sweat on his brow had cooled to a stickiness and a Doctor came out of surgery, a clipboard in hand, looking around.

Wesley had been looking at him for what seemed a painfully long time as his heart beat heavily against his sternum, looking at the clipboard until he called out her name.

He stood up, his fists balled up and looked at the doctor, swallowing a thick lump of unspoken emotion as he did and nodded.

“She's lost a lot of blood and we're going to take her to the OR in a few minutes for emergency surgery.” The Doctor nodded. “Please can you sign these forms?”

“...Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly, his hands at his sides, the fingers fidgeting awkwardly.

“Go home. Rest. Maybe pack an overnight bag for her?”

“I can't leave her.” Wesley replied sharply.

“She will be in Surgery for some time. Please, Mr. Wesley, the forms?”

He looked to the form.

It was a release form.

He was signing a release form for her surgery.

It seemed...so important, it didn't seem right that he should be the one to sign it.

He hesitated, then took the pen and quickly dashed his name over the dotted line before thrusting it back at the Doctor.

“...Thank you. As soon as we know more, I will be back to see you.”

With that, the Doctor disappeared back into the room.

Wesley swallowed the same lump that had risen back up into his throat and looked beyond the doors to see if he could see her again...

Just then, a small Asian nurse came out with a plastic bag that had a number and her last name written on.

“Next of kin?” she asked.

He nodded blankly.

“Her personal effects.” she replied, handing it to him.

He accepted the bag and nodded again as she walked back into the room.

He felt like a ghost amongst the living and in the haze of it all thought that his heart was in the next room with her. As if he had given it to her to carry her through all of this...

_It would be romantic if it wasn't so tragic..._

He looked down to the bag, finding himself sat again and saw a few items.

A wallet. A pack of chewing gum. A set of keys. A can of Mace. A tube of lip-salve.

He reached into the pocket and retrieved the keys.

He held them tight in his hand, painfully tight. Letting the cold metal drive hard into the soft flesh of his hands, made the sharp blades crush into the soft tissue and stood up, the pain driving him forwards.

He would be useful.

He would go and collect her things.

And he would be back. And at least then, he would have done something useful.

 

*

 

 

He took a cab to her place, not wanting to pull Francis away from Fisk and marching up the stone steps of her apartment instead of using the elevator forced the heat in his veins into a more suitable medium.

Hard Work.

Wesley had never been one for doing hard manual labor. His skills had always lay in the academic and the intellectual, but right now, all he wanted to do was discharge this hot angry rage that stammered and stuttered in his veins.

He found himself at her door and ignoring the fact that the last time he had been here, he had been petrified something terrible had happened to her, he forced the solitary key on the keyring into the lock and opened the door.

The house smelled of old cooking. His cooking.

Post lay scattered on the mat.

There were discarded clothes on the floor in piles where she had dropped and left them.

It was like she would be home at any moment.

He reached across and flicked the light switch and took in the surroundings.

He had tidied briefly in here when she was sleeping, and yet she had managed to make it look like he hadn't done a thing in just a few hours.

Sighing, he began to tidy again.

He walked around, scooping up the laundry and putting it into the cloth laundry hamper at the side of the refrigerator.

He collected the post and stacked it neatly at the side of the toaster.

He tidied the scatter of magazines that had fallen from their neat cascade on the coffee table onto the floor and reset the remote control onto the armchair.

She was extraordinarily messy.

But it gave him purpose now.

He pushed open her bedroom door, disturbing something that shifted like...ceramic...

The smell of spoiled food reached his nose.

The smashed remains of the plates...the left over uneaten pasta...

His eyes followed the staining on the wall just above and realized that she'd thrown them in temper after their argument...

When he had closed off from her about the scar on his stomach...

He closed his eyes bitterly and sat on the bed, still rumpled but hopelessly cold.

He lay back on the sheets, burying his nose in her duvet and trying to divine her presence again...

To smell the scent of her on the sheets again, to find any scrap of her in that room that seemed to be so...cold.

Everything was cold.

He wrapped the duvet around him, trying to remember the exact way her skin felt against his.

He had never really had much of an imagination, at least not in the way he was trying to make it work right now.

He closed his sore, swollen eyes and trying to pair the scent of her, the softness of her skin, the way she sounded when she breathed...

He was losing her.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

The way she tasted, the way she moaned when he penetrated her, the way she praised his name like it was a prayer, the feel of the sweat on her skin...

His eyes sprang open at the sound of the door opening.

He threw the duvet aside and sprang to his feet, his hand going for the pistol secreted in the back of his pants, wondering if the devil had followed him here.

He would make art of the mans brains...

A colorful mosaic on the duck egg shade of her bedroom wall.

A gift to come home to.

The door was pushed open and Wesley drew his gun, aiming it...

Straight at Fisk.

“...Sir?”

“...Wesley.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for your continued support. 
> 
> Work again, is being rather demanding on my time and help, I have fallen into yet another fandom. But this story isn't over, even if it is slower...


	11. Affection and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley finds himself speaking about your relationship with the one person he never he would..

“...Sir?”

“Wesley.”

The sheer ridiculousness of Wilson Fisk being here, now in her apartment settled on him like some bizarre lace voile, misting the whole world around him.

His hand dropped immediately, his thumb pushing the safety on as he stared at the man who seemed to be entirely too big for the whole of this apartment.

“...How...” Wesley holstered the gun. “...How did you find me, Sir?”

“...I asked...Francis to direct me to you...” he replied, looking around, seeming to be a bit conflicted by how he had found his right hand man.

Wesley nodded, and raised his head.

“...What do you need me to do Sir?” he asked, ready as always, to serve.

“...Wesley. I need for you....to answer me a few questions...”

Wesley's swallowed and nodded firmly, once.

That had been the one thing he was certainly not looking forwards to doing was answering these sorts of questions and it had been foolish to think that they would not come, but he had not anticipated them so soon.

Fisk looked around once more, to the dirty smashed plates on the floor, to the rumbled bedding and sat in the small chair that half housed her haphazardly folded washing. Wesley took a seat on the bed, sinking into the cold softness of it.

“...Your work for me, recently...” Fisk began. “...has not been lacking. It never really deviates from its...usual...high standard. But, this...development, has been...out of character...for you, James.”

Wesley nodded, he knew it had.

In all of the time that Fisk had employed him his carnal pursuits had been below the radar and off the record, mostly with escorts, a favoured few that he employed once or twice a week to clear his mind when necessary.

But a relationship?

Not for a long time.

His work, his life, his lack of interest in anything beyond sex in general just didn't support it.

But she had turned his carnal interest into something more structured. Something that went beyond seeking solace and comfort between her legs and eventual orgasm, from hearing the praise of his name groaned against his shoulders as her teeth sank into his flesh.

He had somehow allowed himself to fall for her.

“...as I said, Sir. The heart wants what it wants. Even if it doesn't make it's reasons well known.” Wesley replied.

“...I am not indifferent...to the concept of affection, James.” Fisk began. “...I am...simply surprised by...the object of your affection.”

Wesley felt half torn between defending her and keeping his tongue.

Fisk was the only comfort he had here at the moment and by rebuking him could risk more than him leaving.

“...Are you in love, James?”

Wesley raised his head, the question so direct that it had thrown him.

“...Sir?”

“...Are you in love with her, James?”

Wesley's eyes glazed over.

Love?

Love was always something Wesley considered superfluous.

It wasn't necessary by any means. Not for business. Not for existence. Nor productivity.

The planet was overpopulated and anyone with 'love' in their minds and functional reproductive parts could 'celebrate' their love by adding to the growing number.

It was commercialized with romance and roses, hearts and violins playing as man, after man, after man would pop the question to his love interest at restaurants all over the city.

It was diamonds, and lace, and church weddings, and everything that seemed to make up the background noise of New York City.

It was a fallacy.

It was his parents sleeping in separate beds, in separate wings and led separate wives. His father fucking his secretary in every 4 star hotel in the area and his mother drinking her libido away.

It was witnessing divorces in the newspapers followed by another marriage, followed by another divorce until the celebrities either died of a drug/drink induced overdose or died aged 60 in the bed of wife number 14.

Love was a fallacy.

But this...wasn't love.

At least not in the way he saw it.

This was finding a common bond with someone else and carefully winding it through the jagged edges of his life and praying to a God he long since realized was a cardboard cut out that the sharpened edges wouldn't snag it, and cut it.

Yet it had.

And his heart, the thing he had always assumed was 'just' to keep him alive, was some how dying in his body and everything was simply carrying on.

He was dying inside, and the world was moving on around him.

“...Yes, Sir.” he said thickly, his eyes becoming painful to keep open as they filled with tears.

“...James...” Fisk sighed, turning to him.

He blinked and two heavy tears dropped onto the lenses of his glasses.

“...James. I...can't imagine...how painful this must...be for you. But I need to know...what happened...”

Wesley looked to Fisk again as the two tears rolled down the lens of his glasses and into the guttering of the frame.

“...Sir.” he replied thickly.

“...I need to know...if our operations...are about to be compromised.”

Wesley nodded.

Of course. The job always came first. Without exception.

Wesley took Fisk through the entire event. Ommiting personal details, bullet poiting facts. Giving him a clear insight to what had happened and how the masked devil had shot at Wesley and how she had taken the bullet intended for him and Fisk nodded as he listened, the cogs in his mind working behind his eyes.

When Wesley had finished, he looked to Fisk who was nodding, the colour below his collar rising. A sure sign that he was either extremely upset, or extremely angry.

Both were equally as dangerous and explosive.

“...Sir. I will find out who did this and I will deal with him personally.” Wesley began swiftly, placating the angry man in front of him who stood up.

Wesley stood up automatically with him and looked to him, awaiting either reprisal or an outburst.

“You will return to her bedside, and you will wait.” the voice came out in an angry burst which betrayed the kindness in it. “...I will not have...her awaken...to an empty chair...which you could fill.” he responded, his tone slightly calmer. “...I will...investigate...this...devil...”

“Sir...If there is anything I can--”

“Go back to her. Wesley.” he said forcefully, and got up, leaving the apartment.

Wesley flinched when the door slammed shut behind him, not out of fear, but out of surprise.

For the first time in his time with his employer, he had not been needed...

Fisk had decided he was needed elsewhere.

And perhaps he was...

Wesley rubbed his eyes under the glasses and sighed.

Trying to focus his brain into action.

He checked his watch, it was now getting on for late afternoon, and he was wasting time.

He got up, searching through her possessions for things to pack into an overnight bag. Toiletries, sleeping garments, fresh underwear.

He found a mass of black tee shirts, shorts, trousers, he questioned why someone who didn't work at a funeral home required so much black in their wardrobe.

He packed it all together, working swiftly and placing it into a black holdall before standing and making her bed.

It was almost automated.

He'd reset plenty of rooms after some 'wet-work' as it was called. Hiding the evidence, making things look the way they should so that nobody would be any the wiser.

But never like this.

He wanted it to remain as he knew it.

Her place.

Picking up the hold-all, he switched off the light in the room and closed the door behind him before casting a final look around the apartment and leaving, closing the door closed tight.

Outside, Francis was waiting for him.

He stood to attention.

“Sir, I took--”

Wesley shook his heard tersely and jerked his head to the doors either side of them reproachfully before handing him the bag.

“...Not here.”

Francis nodded and followed Wesley out of the building and to the car that was parked out front.

Wesley slid into the rear passenger seat and waited for Francis to stow the bag and take the seat.

“...Where we headed?”

“...Hospital.” he replied, folding his tie back down. “...And I want you to take care of some business for me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this is taking so long.
> 
> I'm sort of dividing my free time (not much of it) between resting, my new fandom and this fic.
> 
> But here we go, one more step closer to the end 
> 
> Enjoy.


	12. Sterile Bleedthroughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley returns to the hospital to find that it stirs old memories of his own stay there.

Wesley walked into the hospital, holding the bag he'd packed for her and looking towards the ICU swallowed the simmering fear that was bubbling in his gut and had been since he had given the order to head back.

Wesley feared very little.

As the right hand of the man who ran Hells Kitchen there was a certain invincibility that surrounded him. Nothing was out of the question, nothing out of reach, nothing impossible or undoable.

And yet here he was, staring at something he could not bargain with. Could not blackmail. Could not twist or turn or bury, or reveal.

Something that he could not control.

Not for all of his wealth, or power.

He may as well have been stood bare before it all, with nothing to offer except a plaintive plea.

_Please don't take her from me._

He walked to the same area he had left and sank into a seat in the now empty seating outside of the ICU door.

But despite all of this fear, this uncertainty, there was something that seemed to stir inside him that was not quite negative, but didn't feel good either.

He loved her.

He had admitted he loved her to the man he had dedicated his life to, and in doing so had openly shed tears at the fact she was fighting for her life.

And as weak as it had made him, he carried it inside him like some sort of beacon, even a dimly lit one.

“...Mr. Wesley?”

He looked up and saw a nurse stood near him, looking sympathetic.

“...Mr. Wesley. You can see her now.”

He stood up at once.

“How is she?”

“We've stabilized her.” the nurse replied, pushing the door open to the ICU. “She may need some additional surgery later on. But we've managed to retrieve the bullet, and she's been fortunate. The damage wasn't as bad as some we've seen. At this stage, we're quietly confident.”

Wesley nodded. Of course, he knew all about abdominal gunshot wounds having been the recipient of one. But for some reason the pain of it was now distant, not just by time, but by being dwarfed by the idea she was suffering the same fate.

The joke that he had made only days ago about taking a bullet for her seemed tasteless and crass.

The nurse led him to a private room and paused outside of the door.

“...She may look fri--”

“Please. May I just see her?” he asked bluntly, a barely there twitch of the lips to indicate a half-assed attempt at friendliness. Not desiring to hear the softened words or played out patter that she no doubt used on every husband, wife, son, father, mother and daughter.

He knew he was going to see tubes, bags of blood, needles, ventilators, and bandages. That she'd look as pale and waxy as a mannequin and just as lifeless. And that it would feel like a bag of rocks in a duffel bag to the gut.

He knew.

He'd been counting on it to ground him.

The nurse seemed a little put out by his abruptness, but instead opened the door for him.

Allowing him to go in.

He walked in smoothly and closed the door behind him, shutting the world out.

The masked man, Hells Kitchen. Everything. Even Fisk, though he always resided in his pocket, on full charge, any time, day or night.

He twisted the blinds closed, and in doing so rested his forehead against the door, giving himself a moment's reprieve from the stern, sure persona he exerted and sighed.

“...God damn it...”

He found himself steeling himself to turn around, despite knowing what was facing him.

He could hear it in the beeping, the monotonous sounds of the machines monitoring her condition.

He could smell it in the disinfectant, the organic matter of her body, or exposed wounds that had been hastily stifled with chemicals.

He could taste it in the dry air with its acridly sterile choke that seemed to cling greedily to everything in the room.

He knew it all so well. He had eaten, slept, dreamt and breathed it for two weeks after his own brush with death.

And now she was dealing with it too.

A surge of possessiveness forced him to turn and face her.

His heart did not sink as it did in old movies where a dramatic, too-loud orchestral overture would convey the male leads turmoil as he turned his face away from it, allowing the audience to imagine the horror he saw.

Instead, his stomach squirmed, trembled. Shook and became very cold.

He dropped the bag and found his feet were taking him to her bedside, leaning in so he was inches from her passive, pale, cold looking face, from the tubes going into her nose helping her breathe. From the dry, cracked lips, from the eyes that were closed, and he found his hand reaching to stroke her hair away from her forehead.

Inquisitiveness, not only of how she was, but also how he had developed these feelings, this inappropriate, inopportune feelings for her.

And how two people like them weren't meant to have this. Any part of this.

They deserved what they got.

But not to watch the other suffer it instead.

“...is this our punishment, _Ellen_...?” he asked quietly. “...to watch each other die?”

He looked down to see her hand, intricately laced and wired with tubes and detectors and took it carefully in his own, folding her cold fingers around his clammy palm.

“...You're dying, Ellen...” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her coarse fingertips. “...and I'm dying watching you...”

Wesley sank into the seat next to her, perching on the edge of it, his hand curled around hers.

“...Whatever happens, know that the man responsible will die. Painfully. Slowly. And with as much excruciating pain as I can deal with these hands.” he murmured softly, almost as though it were a lullaby. “I promise you this.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate the patience that the readers have shown during this.
> 
> As you may know, I have recently entered into a new fandom, and without fresh Wesley material, it has become increasingly difficult to maintain a connection to the muse.
> 
> But I am now sort of back on track. Thank you for bearing with me

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you like this guys. Please feel free to leave comments and kudos as I love reading about what you liked and what you want to see happen next.  
> I LOVE seeing your reactions to the work I do, it gives me a real sense of achievement


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